


Stage 3

by taylortighten



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cancer, Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-29
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylortighten/pseuds/taylortighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coughing, shortness of breath, wheezing, chest pain. Symptoms that all lead to the same horrible conclusion: John is sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Symptoms

**Author's Note:**

> Remember guys, it's a fanfic, it's not going to be 100% accurate. Please don't correct my details.

Running as fast as he could, John followed Sherlock down the street, panting and laughing as he went. He caught up in no time, slamming the door of 221B closed behind them before leaning back against the wall, laughing still. Sherlock grinned at him, wide and filled with joy. Coughing a little, John wiped sweat from his brow and peeled off his damp coat.

"Did you see the way Anderson turned purple?" The doctor asked, clasping his hands on top of his head in an attempt to catch his breath after the long distance high-speed run they just partook in.

"Quite an alarming shade, though I must admit I did not expect him to go for Sergeant Donovan's firearm." Sherlock smirked, stripping off his own rain-soaked coat and scarf as he began the ascent upstairs.

"Sherlock, you caught him and Sally in the middle of snogging, at a crime scene, and declared it to the whole lot of Met that was there!" John trailed after his flatmate, heading straight for the kettle after hanging his jacket to dry. "Cuppa?" He asked, coughing a little.

"Please." Was all that came in response, seeing as Sherlock was face-down in the leather couch, no doubt bored now that they had gotten themselves kicked off a case before they even managed to lay an eye on the body.

Tapping his fingers against the counter, John eyed the fridge for the milk, luckily finding a half used pint hidden in the back behind a bowl of tongues. Within minutes, he was pressing a mug into the detective's hand while sipping cautiously at his own steaming tea. The two sat in silence for a good twenty minutes, John reading his book (some teen trash called 'New Moon', Sherlock noted idly) while Sherlock stared at the yellow smiley face on the wall, obviously considering the few places John could have hidden his gun. Certainly boredom was a reasonable motive to find it again.

"You should exercise more." Sherlock spoke up after another ten minutes, flicking his gaze at the doctor.

"Pardon?" John questioned, not even bothering to look over at his flatmate, guessing that he was making a stab at the small beer belly he was getting from having too many nights out with Stamford and Lestrade.

"It took you two minutes and forty two seconds longer than normal to catch your breath after a routine jog around London." Back to staring at the wall pattern, Sherlock kicked his feet impatiently, waiting for another murder or kidnapping (or maybe a bombing, this time).

"A routine jog around London?" He barked a laugh, setting down his mug and raising an eyebrow at the thin form of Sherlock. "We all can't be beanpoles with the fitness of an Olympic athlete, Sherlock! I'm not as young as I used to be, I can only run for my life at a certain speed without needing some oxygen."

Humming and shrugging off the conversation, Sherlock threw himself off of the couch and towards the kitchen, muttering to himself about the tongues that John had spotted earlier.

"Best not put any of those in the silverware drawer, like you did with those slices of leg muscle!" John called out, going back to reading and sincerely hoping that Sherlock would listen to him this time.

It turned out that Sherlock didn't listen to a word, and those tongues (in a strange green-brown goop that smelled an awful lot like syrup) ended up right beside the forks.

Choking on his tea, John slammed the drawer shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Dammit, Sherlock, I told you not to put the tongues in here two days ago!" He coughed, leaning against the counter with his mug right under his nose in hopes of getting rid of the disgusting smell the tongues were giving off.

"I only put them in yesterday, John," Sherlock rolled his eyes, typing away at John's computer with a speed that the doctor could never hope to replicate. "And if you don't mind, keep the drawer closed. They are supposed to be in complete darkness for three days before sitting on the windowsill for another two."

"Bloody hell," John groaned, grinding his teeth for a moment before setting down his cup and pushing himself towards the door. "I'm going out for a breather before the stench makes me sick. Can't you at least put out a deodorizer?"

Getting a displeased grunt in response, the doctor grabbed his jacket and headed down the stairs, aiming his feet towards the nearby park. He pulled the coat close, shivering slightly in the chilly air. If John had stopped Sherlock from loudly outing Anderson and Donovan, they would be working a case right about now (saying it even took that long), but no, he wanted to have a bit of a laugh at Anderson's expense after the man had called him Sherlock's pet. Again. And now Lestrade was so angry that he wasn't calling for any help on the case, claiming that they could solve it without any help from the consulting detective and his army doctor. They probably could, but it would take three times as long, he could bet.

By the time he reached the park, it was getting close to dark. John stalked past a group of smokers, holding back his coughs until he was a good few meters away before heading towards Sherlock's highest approved Chinese take-out place. It was good chance he could get the detective to eat, seeing as there were no pertinent experiments taking all his time or cases taking all his focus. Though, John did remark to himself, it was a Thursday, and Sherlock tended to stray away from the normal conventions (eating, sleeping, watching bad telly) on days that started with T.

"More like days ending in Y." He grumbled to himself, eying the bottom of the door handle. The most important part, Sherlock always told him, though he never saw the difference between it and any other.

After ordering and making his way back to 221B, John was near shivering, only saved by the grace of the warm food clutched to his chest.

"Ah, spring rolls," Sherlock greeted, taking the take out containers from his flatmate and pulling out silverware (from the drying rack beside the sink, John happily noticed). "Hurry and make tea, then." He insisted, plopping himself down into his chair and kicking his feet up onto John's.

Mumbling to himself the whole way, he did as requested, stealing one of the spring rolls from Sherlock's hungry grasp. John shoved Sherlock's feet out of the way, flipping on the telly to Doctor Who as he began to eat. He made sure not to comment on the way the detective was shoveling in food, knowing that as soon as the words left his mouth, the take out containers would be abandoned in a fit of stubbornness.

"That woman is not as old as she appears, it's obvious! And that child in the gas mask, he's obviously related to her, he follows her wherever she goes!" Sherlock commented, waving his fork at the screen, bits of noodles handing from it still.

"You've seen this one before, Sherlock, the second part too, you already know how it ends." John smiled a little, watching his friend just as much as he was watching the Ninth Doctor (he did manage to catch every single second that Captain Jack Harkness was on screen, though).

"Even more reason we should turn this off. Do reruns really entertain you, John?" The man asked incredulously, dropping his empty spring roll container on the floor and wrinkling his nose, frowning at the fact that there was no more.

"When you shut up and don't comment on how ridiculous it all is, yes, actually." Grinning now, John chuckled at the way his flatmate pouted at the telly. Another cough came to him, but he passed it off as food in his throat. John was just shocked to see Sherlock grab another container.

The nice night at home didn't last long. Before the two of them even finished the episode of Doctor Who, Lestrade was busting into the flat with a frantic sense of urgency.

"There's another murder, Sherlock, we need you," The Detective Inspector sighed, hesitating at the doorway. "Regents Park."

"Boating Lake?" Sherlock asked, shoving away the Chinese food like he was embarrassed to be seen eating. He got to his feet, already bee lining towards his coat and scarf.

"Didn't make it that far, lady was found near the college." Lestrade sighed, watching John clamber up to his feet and chase after Sherlock, the group of them already heading towards the street. Sherlock bypassed the police car that the DI had driven, making his way by foot. John groaned, wishing for once that they could take a cab instead of running. He refused to admit that aloud though, knowing his partner would scold him for even considering a slower form of travel just because it was more convenient.

When they finally made it to the park, they headed straight for Regent's college, where Sherlock and Anderson were in a hissing fight.

"Lestrade asked me to come, so it is quite clear that I am needed!" The consulting detective growled, flashing his teeth at the forensics 'specialist'.

"If you or your little-" He hesitated, glancing at John, clearly remembering what happened the last time he had called the doctor 'pet'. "-friend contaminate the body, I'll make sure DI Lestrade never works with you again!"

"Really, Anderson, do not make vague threats that you have absolutely no control over. You've tried that before, or have you forgotten?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing past the man and holding up the police tape for himself and his flatmate.

The instant he was on the other side of the tape, his mind went full-focus on the bloody scene in front of him. A young girl, approximately twenty-four year of age, student at the London School of Film, undergraduate in performing arts, photography habit, had been chased from the school towards the lake, where she had been viciously cut down with a blade of some sort. Sherlock recited all of this to the DI, grumbling under his breath as he pointed out the specifics.

"You can see the trail of blood, there, and over there," He pointed, tracing out the trail with his fingers. "She had been taking photographs of the park, you can see the indents of the camera on her fingers, see? On the way back to the school, she had been attacked, obvious by the defensive wounds on her forearms. The woman lifted her arms in an attempt to cover and protect her face. She threw the camera at him; you can see it back there where the first spots of blood are. After that, she ran towards the lake, probably aiming to round the school and go towards the bridge."

Scanning the area, Sherlock paced and muttered to himself; eyes narrowed and focused on the body.

"I can't tell what weapon it is," John spoke up, kneeling by the body and frowning at the wounds covering the petite blond girl. "A blade, bigger than a regular knife and smooth edged, it looks like."

Running a list of weapons through his mind, Sherlock sorted through all the possibilities and narrowed down the results to one likely subject.

"Machete," Snapping his eyes open, Sherlock rounded on the corpse and got as close as he possibly could without touching it. "A dull machete, at that." He sniffed the wounds, humming with intrigue.

"A machete?" Lestrade repeated, frowning at the odd weapon choice.

"Yes! One that has also split coconuts, if the aroma is anything to go by," Sherlock turned, frowning at his flatmate as he began to cough, thinking he had said something inappropriate. He didn't, it seemed, though John was coughing still and trying to clear his throat. "Give him water." He said impatiently, waving his hand towards his doctor before turning back to the crime scene.

There was no time for him to think about the odd coughs coming from his flatmate, he had to figure out the motive and suspect behind this attack. Before there was a third, Lestrade would insist if he took his focus off the case for even a moment.

"It's someone at the college," He finally said, three minutes later, sparing a glance for the DI and doctor. "A fellow student. He's murdering the woman who turned him down. The man is in his thirties, awkward and probably acts like a stalker. He pursues women who are much too attractive for him, and he collects weapons that are mainly use in the Caribbean. Five ten, with a birth defect in the left leg that causes him to limp."

Lestrade nodded, writing down all of the information and pressing at his temple as if he were getting a headache.

"Thanks for coming Sherlock-" He started, not even getting out the full sentence before the two were off and heading back towards 221B.

"Come, John, the tongues should be ready for the next step in the experiment, and your assistance will be needed while I pickle them." Sherlock said, beckoning the doctor with him as he hurried away from the crime scene, not bothering to stop when Lestrade called after him to confirm that he had gotten all of the information correct.

Lestrade sighed, watching them go, shaking his head and motioning for Anderson to get to work with the body.

"He's going to be the death of Watson." He muttered, watching Sherlock speed down the street while John jogged to catch up.


	2. Diagnosis

"Nine days."

"Huh?" John jumped out of his thoughts; surprised to hear Sherlock's voice so close to his head. The detective was leaning over the doctor, eying him and frowning slightly.

"You've been short of breath and persistently coughing over the past nine days." Came the reply, casual as if they were talking about the weather.

"So? I'm not so young anymore, Sherlock. Wait, didn't we already talk about this?" He sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair and sending a withering look towards his flatmate. Standing up, John just shook his head and headed towards the stairs. Sherlock watched him, throwing himself onto the couch and steepling his fingers under his chin in thought.

When the doctor returned downstairs twenty minutes later, showered and changed into his favorite oatmeal jumper, Sherlock merely glanced at him, giving him a once over before rolling his eyes.

"Surely going to the pub with Lestrade will not help your health." He commented, raising an eyebrow.

"Oi, there's nothing wrong with getting a pint with a mate, not that you would know," John added the last part under his breath, but he knew Sherlock would catch it either way. "Off out, try not to destroy the flat." He finished, tugging on his coat and leaving 221B.

Sherlock huffed at the comments, both the social commentary and the insinuation that he would ruin his place of residence. Digging beneath a stack of cold case files, he pulled out John's laptop and paused for a mere two seconds before typing in the new pass code. He smirked in defiance, ignoring the fact that his computer was closer than the other had been, and there was no need for him to deduce the password from John's newest girlfriend (naming the password Amelia after her wasn't the smartest idea).

While Sherlock was busy pouting and doing research on how to set jam on fire, John was walking to the pub nearest Scotland Yard.

Sighing and sidestepping a group of smokers outside the pub, John was greeted by loud cheers. Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned as he saw the football match on. John looked around for a minute, eventually spotting a group of familiar faces towards the back, in a booth.

"Hey, Watson!" One of the off-duty officers greeting, clapping a hand on his back and waving for the bartender to bring over another pint of beer. He grinned, sliding into the half-round bench seat next to Lestrade.

"How's the game, mate?" John asked, stealing a chip from the plate in the middle of the table. The crowd roared up again, this time with far less joy as Brazil's team scored.

Time and beer flowed easy and fast, the group chatting about everything from girls ("all nice in practice, no good when you get a ring on 'em!"), to the match ("Brazil cheated!"), to work ("then that Sherlock bloke came, called everyone idiots and pointed at the paint on the wall, saying that the murderer painted it!").

John laughed and shared stories at the appropriate times, downing shots of tequila when he needed to during their speed game of "Never have I ever". Half through the game, after slamming a drink to the claim that Lestrade never slept with a flatmate, he began to cough as if he were choking. Really, it felt like he was, because he realised a little too late what that drink would look like to the blokes around the table. They all laughed at him, a few smirking, Lestrade clapping at his back to get him to stop coughing up a lung.

"I was in the army!" He laughed, shaking his head and slapping his head in mock shame. "Do any of you really think Sherlock could manage to get off with anyone?" John rolled his eyes, his lips quirking into a side-grin as he tried to get the game to move on from himself.

Eventually the subject of their conversation moved on to the best lay they ever got (everyone was somewhat surprised to hear that Lestrade's best wasn't the wife he wasn't finished divorcing, but a man he met at the courthouse).

As time wore on, the men were going from buzzed to tipsy to drunk in quite a rapid succession. John's laughter slid seamlessly into pure giggles, while Dimmock barely managed to keep his words from slipping into one long word. Lestrade was stumbling over his words, repeating them a few times until he managed to get them right or give up. The doctor's coughing came more frequently, and went from the clearing-the-throat kind to the god-my-chest-is-going-to-explode kind.

"Oi, Johnny, watch yourself." Sergeant Samuels said, watching the man cough even after the group got up and headed outside. John just shook his head and nodded over towards the group of chain smokers as if they were the reason for his sudden cough attack.

Waving off and staggering his way back towards Baker Street, John wasn't necessarily drunk, but he certainly was far from sober. Especially because he couldn't tell if he was seeing two cabs, or one.

As he sauntered down the block, John's mobile vibrated twice with text messages, but his vision was blurry enough that he couldn't read them properly. All he knew was Sherlock had been on his laptop again, and had looked at his internet history. Again.

"Sh-Sherlock," John started as he marched up the stairs of 221B towards the living space, knowing his flatmate would still be awake. "How many times have I told you to use your own computer?" He groaned, heavily settling himself down into his chair and throwing a withering look at his friend over on the couch, exactly where he left him.

"Yours was closer." Sherlock simply answered, the lie so obvious that John would have seen it if he had not been so inebriated.

"That doesn't mean you can use mine!" The doctor argued, frowning and sighing softly. He just shook his head, knowing that it was completely pointless to once again ban Sherlock from using his things.

The two stayed in silence for a while, John watching the mindless banter on the telly while Sherlock continued to mess with his laptop, typing at an impossible speed. He only stopped when he heard John's slow, even breathing, grunting impatiently and closing the lid of the computer.

"Doesn't he know better than to sit out here after he drinks?" The detective asked himself, shoving himself up off the couch so he could grab a blanket to toss over his sleeping friend. Continuing to mutter to himself, Sherlock eyed the doctor for a minute before huffing and turning to the kitchen, deciding it was the perfect time for an experiment with fish eggs and Mexican salsa.

John slept through the night in that chair, and woke with a pain in his shoulder, tingling all the way down to his fingertips. His hair was stuck up in every direction, and the dull throb in his head reminded him that he had enjoyed his night at the pub a little too much. Groaning and scrubbing his palms over his eyes, he blinked and stared around, rolling his shoulders and wincing slightly at the pain that shot through his arm.

"The chair is a bad position for your wounded shoulder." Sherlock's voice spoke up from behind him. John turned and glared, unhappy with the way Sherlock looked so impeccable, even when he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before, and probably hadn't eaten since they went to Angelo's the other day.

"No shit, Sherlock," John grumbled, stretching and getting to his feet, rocking slightly and coughing to clear his throat. "Bloody hell, my arm is killing me, and I think I'm getting a bloody cold."

He kept on mumbling angrily under his breath, huffing and puffing his way all the way up to his room. Leaning against the wall, John sighed and caught his breath, heading for the shower after the moment of odd weakness after climbing the stairs.

While scrubbing his hair and coughing into his soap-y hand, John had made up his mind. Sherlock had a point when he noticed how long this cough had been lasting, and it was really starting to get on John's nerves. He knew it was probably just a virus, there had been a handful of sick kids at the surgery and he just caught something from one of them, no doubt, but either way, he wanted it confirmed by a second source.

Dressing quickly and heading down the stairs (poorly covering up his shortness of breath with a small cough), the man watched his flatmate for a moment before grabbing his jacket.

"I'm off to the surgery," John told him, tugging on the coat and sighing when Sherlock didn't make a move to show that he had heard him. "I won't be long. How about you get some of those cold cases taken care of?" He suggested, smiling a little. When Sherlock didn't reply still, the smile fell off his face and he simply rolled his eyes before walking out to the street.

He caught a cab and directed them in the way of his own workplace, knowing that Sarah could help him figure out which strain of cold he had so he could figure out what to do to battle it. The drive was excruciatingly long; John hadn't realised it was the busiest time of the morning and the roads were full of travelers.

Finally making it to the surgery, John paid the cabbie and didn't bother waiting in line to see Sarah. She looked up at him with confusion, motioning for him to step to the side and out of the way of the other patients.

"John, what are you doing here?" She asked, frowning. "It's your day off, isn't it? Elisabeth didn't call you to take her place, did she? Because she's already used all of her days off-"

"No, no, Sarah, no one called me. I have a favor to ask real quickly." He flashed her a small smile, waiting for her to tell Mary to take over her spot at the desk before following her back to her small office.

"What is it John?" Sarah started, her eyes traveling over his body to look for any signs of injury, finding nothing obvious.

"I've got this bloody annoying cough that's been getting worse this past week, and every time I'm off running with Sherlock, I tend to run out of breath faster than normal," Leaning against the patient's table, he sighed and scrubbed at his hair. "And, on another hand, my shoulder is bugging me. I know I slept on it funny, but it usually is better after a bit."

They got down to business, Sarah making him take off his jumper so she could listen to this breathing and his heart. She frowned, taking a little more time than normal. John noticed everything she did that wasn't the most common method, making sure to keep a stack of questions for her in the front of his mind.

After doing a quick set of twenty jumping jacks in the middle of her office, and having to stop two short to bend over and cough, Sarah was making notes on her little clipboard, worriedly watching her friend.

"John, I'm going to send you to the back room to Marty." She announced, making more notes and motioning for him to take his jumper back.

"You want me to get an x-ray?" He asked, completely thrown off by the request.  
"I'm worried you have more than just a cold," Sarah nodded, sighing and leaning against her desk. "It might be the beginnings of pneumonia, and you know that's best found with a quick chest scan."

John frowned and nodded, taking her taking the slip she held out for him and strolling towards the backside of the surgery where Marty Steinbrook worked on his own. After a quick explanation and a small amount of confusion on Sarah's use of 'urgency' on her x-ray request, he was stripping down to his pants and putting on the uncomfortable, heavy vest.

The x-ray scan itself didn't take very long, but the bloody wait for the results seemed to take ages.

Sarah felt bad for making him wait, so the two of them ended up going down the street for Mexican food while Marty examined and prepared his scans.

"Why did you have me get the x-ray?" John asked, watching Sarah's reaction carefully. He knew as well as she did that the beginnings of pneumonia was nothing but a cold, and that could easily be found without having to do the x-ray.

Sarah beat around the bush, taking her time to order her food and purposefully dropping her fork on the floor in order to put off telling him the truth.

"I don't suspect pneumonia." She replied, keeping her eyes down on the table, picking at the tablecloth.

"That much is obvious," He said, narrowing his eyes and trying to get her to make eye contact properly. It took him another three minutes before he finally got her to look him in the face. "Why, Sarah?"

"Oh," The buzzing of her phone interrupted her hesitation. "Marty's ready with the x-rays." They had only eaten half of their food by that time, but Sarah hurried the two of them back to the surgery and into her office, where Marty was waiting at the light board with a grim look on his face.

"John, I have bad news." The man said in his slow voice, looking at his with dark eyes from over his small round glasses.

"Yeah? What's so bad?" He asked, glancing from Sarah to Marty, frowning at the heavy weight that was in the room.

"Doctor Watson, you don't have a cold or pneumonia. You've got stage 3 NSCLC," Marty answered glumly. "Lung cancer."


	3. Sharing

It took John nearly a full hour to walk from the surgery back to Baker Street.

He couldn't see the point in hurrying, not right then anyway. What was he supposed to do? Hurry back and tell Sherlock that he would be getting weaker and weaker because he had a stupid normal human problem that was killing him from the inside out? The detective would probably blame regular sleep cycles or eating habits, and then force John to leave him. What use could a broken doctor be?

With a heavy sigh, John shuffled his way up the stairs, bypassing the living space to head straight up to his bedroom. All he needed was a lot, scorching hot shower, a scorching hot cuppa, and a long kip. It would all just be a bad dream, that's all. Just a nightmare. He probably ate a bad bit of Chinese or something, yeah, that had to be it.

Sherlock didn't stop him, though he had obviously heard him come up. John had seen him through the open door to the kitchen, had seen him focusing his scope on something that smelled suspiciously like rotten pig. It all seemed so normal.

Everything was normal, for everyone else. So why did it feel like his entire world was collapsing around him?

Mrs. Hudson was still baking downstairs, like she had been when he left hours earlier. There were still hoards of people racing around the streets, shopping and laughing and fretting and not a single one of them realised what John just learned.

"Robbed," John muttered to himself, letting the burning hot water run down his back as he stood in the shower. "Robbed of my life."

With that realisation came tears. He leaned himself against the tiled wall, clutching without purchase, sliding to his knees as he sobbed. John didn't move from that spot for a good forty minutes, letting out all his pent up frustration and sadness out on the wall. Unfortunately for him, the crying fit only let to a heavy coughing fit, leaving him doubled over and gripping at his slippery knees.

After another ten minutes, he collected himself enough to scrub at his hair and body with the bar of soap, slowly washing himself up and hoping that his face didn't look as wrecked as he felt on the inside.

Sherlock wasn't at the microscope when he finally descended the stairs into the kitchen. The detective was in his chair, flicking through a file with a look of absolute boredom. He didn't look up when he heard John set the kettle on the stove. John would have to tell him sooner or later, and true to British ways, it was going to be done over a cup of tea.

By the time the tea was steeped and prepared with the proper fixings, John and Sherlock were sitting across from each other, still not making eye contact. He could put it off, couldn't he? He didn't need any sort of treatment just yet, did he? Maybe it wasn't such a good idea that he had scurried from the surgery before he had discussed anything with Sarah. He'd have to find an Oncologist. Bugger it all, he couldn't bring it up.

"Do share what is on your mind, John, before your tea grows cold." Sherlock's voice broke him from his reverie, nearly causing him to spill said cooling tea all over his plaid button up. He had forgotten to add a jumper on top.

"Well, best just get it over with," He whispered to himself, taking a calming sip from his mug before setting it down and steeling himself, preparing for the worst possible situation and response. "I've got cancer, Sherlock."

Silence.

Three whole, dreadfully long minutes of silence.

"What kind?" Sherlock asked, setting aside the file and his own tea, steepling his fingers under his chin and giving John a good once-over with his far-too-inquisitive eyes.

"Lung cancer," John began, casting his gaze down and pushing away the horrible, gut-wrenching feeling that was crawling around his stomach. "Non-small cell lung cancer. Don't know what type yet, or what stage."

Sherlock simply nodded, his lips turning down as he eyed the doctor cautiously, as if too strong a gaze could possibly break him. It took five minutes before their eyes connected again. John had no clue what was going through his flatmate's mind, and even less idea on how to deal with the repercussions. All he knew right now was that he couldn't keep up running around London like he used to, there was nothing more than that. He could have kept up the pretense that he had a bloody cold, why did he have to go and spoil everything and ruin everything that he had with Sherlock? There was no way he would be kept around now, and his hopes were lowering and lowering every minute the detective kept quiet.

"Have you told anyone?" The tea was long gone and the hope of getting a reply had been diminished; John had given up and picked up the stack of mail when Sherlock spoke up.

"Well, you. Sarah knows, and Marty, from the x-ray down at the surgery." John sighed, rubbing as his temple. All he got in reply was a curt nod before the detective swept up from his chair and to his bedroom, closing the door in his wake. He could very nearly feel the tears returning at that, but there was no use in crying all over again. He'd save that for his showers and the nights he'd be stuck awake, wishing his death would be swift and painless.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was nowhere near as emotionally perturbed by the news. Of course, he had suspected his flatmate was sick, but not to such a degree.

There was something he could do, surely. John would try his hardest to help him if he had ever found himself in such a state, right? He certainly made sure he had the best surgeon on staff that one time he had gotten a pen shoved straight through his hand. There was the smallest of scars left, because of that surgeon.

Cancer was a different idea all together, though. It would leave more than just a scar, if the abnormal cells had their choice of the matter.

Well, there was always one thing he could do. A big thing, a horrible thing. But, for his blogger, his doctor, his only friend, it would be worth it. Asking a favor from big brother Holmes could lead to the death of Sherlock, but there was the hope that it could lead to the long life of John.

That's all there had been to settle it.

"Mycroft," Sherlock phoned, clearing his throat and shoving his chin out, positively gritting his teeth to complete this task. "I have a favor to ask."

John could hear Sherlock talking on his mobile, probably making preparations to have John moved out of the Baker Street flat as soon as was possible.

He couldn't just sit there any longer, his feet were itching to go for a walk, but he knew that he would probably just end up at Regent's park, out of breath and angry. Instead, he settled for heading downstairs and knocking on the door of 221A. Mrs. Hudson was all smiles, beckoning him in with promises of fresh cooked apple pies and a steaming mug of tea.

John sat on her small sofa in silence, smiling and nodding as thanks whenever he was handed something or told something. It was a good thing that there were so few people he was close to, otherwise he doubted he would be able to make it through very many repeats of sharing his news.

"Mrs. Hudson," He interrupted her spiel on the neighbors wondering cat, looking at her with a deep frown that she quickly copied. "I've got something to share with you."

"Oh no," The old woman squeaked, pressing herself into the small loveseat beside him, her eyes going wide. "Don't tell me you and Sherlock are on the outs!"

"No, no, Mrs. Hudson, this isn't about him. It's, well, about me," John rubbed at his eyes, draining the last of his tea before setting it off to the side. "I'm afraid I've got cancer."

This time, the silence didn't last even thirty seconds before the poor old landlady burst into tears, clutching her chest and gaping at him.

"No!" Mrs. Hudson shook her head, grabbing his hand and searching his face to see if he was lying. "This can't be, John, you're such a healthy young man!" He just nodded, accepting all of her sad words of condolence and letting her treat him to another slice of pie. It wasn't soon before long that he just couldn't stand it anymore. He pardoned himself, going upstairs just to grab his coat and head back down them. John could already feel a cough coming on, but he waited until he was halfway down the street before he let it burst from his chest. Stopping at the corner, the doctor stared out at the street, blankly watching cars go past. Again, he was struck by the odd feeling these people gave him. Whenever he coughed, people looked as though he might spread cold germs to them. Every time he held back an arrant sob, onlookers suspected there was something more than a physical sickness running through him. He supposed they were right. This was going to destroy him in every way, it was already apparent.

John didn't pay any notice to where his feet were taking him until he pushed open the door of his favorite pub and got hit by the sound of laughter. Blinking and taking a glance around, there was a group of women in the back corner, giggling and knocking their glasses together. People were still celebrating while he was dying.

Sherlock's voice popped into his head: "We are all dying, Watson, don't be dull. You are nothing special, you just happen to be decaying faster than the rest of humanity."

"I should consider myself lucky," John told himself, settling himself into a seat at the bar. "Not getting bloody murdered on one of Sherlock's cases."

The bartender passed him a pint when he motioned for one, eying the doctor and seeming to know better than to make idle chat with him. It was well on half seven when the crowds began to show up, cheering and laughing and rooting for their teams. John had to move himself to the very end of the bar to keep out of getting shoved around by the group of rugby fans that surrounded his previous seat. As soon as he was getting ready to leave, he felt a familiar hand drop onto his shoulder.

"Watson! What are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, stealing the stool next to him while the bloke who was in it went off to flirt with a married woman. John found it hard to fake a smile, even with a buzz coming onto him after his third beer.

"Needed time away." Was all he said, unsure if he was ready to share this information with Lestrade. Sure, he was a friend, but he was also an officer, and it was ultimately his decision if he was able to cope with being on cases.

"Ah, I get you," Greg chuckled, ordering another two beers for them. "I can only image what kind of handful Sherlock could be when you're livin' with him." John laughed along just for the hell of it. It took John another two beers to spill the beans and let out the real reason he was off getting himself drunk.

"Cancer, huh?" Lestrade repeated after the doctor shared the unfortunate happenings. "Bloody hell, John, I had no idea." The mood over the two of them was much more solemn than seemed to hover over the rest of the bar. The DI didn't offer him many words of comfort or blessing, but had instead offered to treat him to as many beers as he could for the rest of the night. John took him up on that offer.

It was pitch black out when John hailed a cab back to Baker Street. He didn't know whether to prepare himself to see all of belongings on the front step or the locks to be changed, but the ride was so short that he didn't have much time to speculate.

Luckily, neither seemed to be the case. He made it all the way up the stairs to the living room with only the tiniest of coughs, trying to keep himself quiet as he stumbled over his own two feet and hung his jacket on top of Sherlock's.

He guessed himself to be drunk, and somehow remembered that if he didn't want a splitting headache the next morning, he should set himself up with some toast now and a water and paracetamol for the morning. Halfway through faltering his way through the dark kitchen, John heard movement behind him. Of course, in his frazzled state, he had completely forgotten about Sherlock. He didn't expect his flatmate to be asleep, but it also didn't occur to him that the detective would be in the sitting room, waiting for him.

"Oh, didn't see you there," John giggled when he bumped headfirst into the taller man, getting bread crumbs all over Sherlock's silk dressing gown. "My bad, Sherlock!"

Two throats cleared in response, and it took John a good minute to realise he wasn't the second one. Looking around and blinking through the haze that covered his mind, he definitely saw two tall figures looming over him, but they didn't seem to be the same. If he wasn't seeing double, then he was definitely seeing both of the Holmes brothers standing in the doorway to the kitchen, looking at him as if he were a chicken with his head cut off.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted in his far-too-aloof voice, nodding once in his own form of 'hello'. "I do ever apologise for my brother's lack of consideration."

"Uh, what?" The words were way too fancy for his muddled brain to properly hear. All he wanted was some toast and jam and a nice rest on something soft. And if he was already dreaming, he really considered this to be much more of a nightmare, not expecting anything pleasant to come from a visit from Mycroft.

"Sherlock has informed me of your... condition, and yet, he still allowed you to wonder your way about the city and get yourself intoxicated. Perhaps it was wrong of him to call me and ask for assistance in assuring you live far past this expiration date your body has set for you."

"You... You're here to help me?" John asked, frowning and glancing between the two.

"Certainly, John. We can't have you dying and abandoning our dear Sherlock, can we?"


	4. Decisions

"So, why do you want to help me?" John asked, frowning at Mycroft. Sipping at his cup of tea, he curled up in his chair and rubbed at his head, a dull ache already growing in his temple. They had stopped him from making his snack of toast, and he was growing more and more hungry as time went on. Alcohol was still readily pumping through his veins; it was outwardly obvious and yet the brothers still wanted to have the conversation.

"As I said, Doctor Watson, we cannot have you leaving Sherlock all on his lonesome," Mycroft repeated, rolling his eyes as he gently tapped his umbrella against the floor. "Surely you realise you are of grave importance to my brother. He called me himself, and asked for my assistance." John just frowned, slowly mugging his way through the information. Sherlock had not only bypassed texting, but he had called his arch-nemesis, and asked for a favor, none-the-less. He felt as if he was dreaming. Perhaps he had already died. Did cancer kill that quickly?

"Don't be foolish and sentimental, Mycroft. I requested your aid in finding proper care for him, that's all. You were the one to appear on the doorstep to interfere with our lives." Sherlock muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. He might have asked a favor of the Minor British Government Official, but there was no need for him to pretend to enjoy it. Or act as if he was thankful in the least. The amount of times they had owed each other was beyond bothering to count; it was the least Mycroft could do.

John and Sherlock sat in relative silence while Mycroft explained his plans. Everything from finding him the best doctors to covering his medical expenses down to the last penny, he seemed to have planned out everything and every possible outcome. Though, knowing the Holmes', that was probably true. John would receive the finest team with the finest equipment at their hands. Down to the car that would drive him, his entire future was being planned for him. Without his permission. And when John realised that, he realised that wasn't what he wanted.

"Wait," He began, shaking his sore skull and setting down his tea. "Wait a mo', don't I get any say in this?" John frowned, glancing between his flatmate and his flatmate's brother, narrowing his eyes a little.

"What do you mean, John?" Sherlock asked, raising a single eyebrow.

"You're plannin' my whole life!" John said, a little loudly than was strictly needed. "I don't get to pick my own doctors or where I get it all done at or what treatment I want, if any, and I don't even get to catch my own cab? I'm not a pet! I can do things on my own! We don't even know how bad it is yet, or how long I've got, and you're already etching out my gravestone."

"Well then, Doctor, you have made your feelings quite clear. Do sleep on it, though." Mycroft swept to his feet, throwing a significant look towards Sherlock before nodding in John's direction and leaving the flat. John sat in silence again, floored that his small outburst had done the trick of getting rid of the British Government. Now if only it had worked on Sherlock. The detective just watched him, carefully calculating each move as John finally got to his feet and made his way back into the kitchen. Still craving that toast, he was getting wearier by the second, and waiting any longer would have been a bad choice. Sherlock didn't say a word or even get up as his friend stumbled around the flat, making a mess with the jam and crumbs. It was only when John made it upstairs and had loudly clambered into bed did he take to his feet and begin tidying up the dishes from Mycroft's visit.

Upstairs, John bustled around, barely getting himself out of his shoes and jeans without tripping over his own two feet. The breadcrumbs were all over his shirt, and there were smears of red jam mingled along with it. As he pealed off the buttons, he realised he had forgotten a jumper all day. It was a wonder that he hadn't been freezing on his entire trip out to the pub and back. John lay out in his pants, staring up at the ceiling and thinking over the conversation they had just finished having. He could easily take the offer and let Mycroft pay for all the medical expenses that were looming in his future. Hell, he probably should considering all the hell he put up with for Sherlock's sake.

John fell asleep without meaning to. Fatigue took him over and threw him into a strange dream-filled sleep. At first, all he saw were odd blank faces, floating hands, people laughing at him and pointing. Mocking him for his limited lifespan. When the scenes moved on, the faces and hands changed to full-fledged bodies, familiar faces. Men he had known during the army, police officers from the Yard, and the cute girl from the grocery store. This time, they weren't laughing. They were staring at him, looking at him as if he were the most disgusting thing on Earth. John suspected that if he looked at himself in a mirror, he'd be covered in boils and wounds.

The last parts of his dreams were the worst.

Those looking in his direction weren't afraid of him or mocking him. They were crying. So contorted with despair that he didn't instantly recognize them: Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. Harry and Dad. Greg and Mycroft. Oddly enough, it didn't seem like they were looking at him. They were looking down. And that's when he realised it. He wasn't a 'he'.

John was nothing but a headstone in the dirt.

Waking with a start, John jumped to his feet and held his head between his hands, gasping to catch his breath. He shook his head, wincing at the sharp pain it left. Apparently (with a glance towards the clock), six hours of sleep was enough to make him forget that he had gotten drunk the night before.

"Bloody hell," John groaned when he realised he hadn't set out any paracetamol or water. "Oh, Christ." He whimpered, bumping his knee on his side table. Muttering swears the entire time he pulled on proper clothes and made his way down to the kitchen, John was sounding worse than a sailor by the time he was sipping his tea.

Sherlock had left the flat without him. John was supposed to be working at the surgery by this hour, seeing as it was half nine, but Sarah had told him to take the day off. Didn't even give him a choice. She thought he needed the time to cope with his new life, and at first, he disagreed wholeheartedly. But now, he wasn't so sure. People weren't looking at him differently (although, Sherlock was probably assessing him for his usefulness), even though he felt like an entirely new being. John, before, had always been nervous of being killed while working with Sherlock, either being stabbed by an angry robber or executed by a nemesis like Moriarty. This new John, though... He was nervous, but more so that he would never get that chance. If this thing killed him, there was no chance of him being killed by Moriarty, and there was even less a chance of him seeing the end of the man who thought it was fun to strap people to explosives.

Sitting around the flat for an hour was driving him stir crazy, and at the end of his rope, John decided to text Sherlock to see if he could help with whatever case he was probably on. Thankfully for his sanity, the reply came quickly. He rushed himself out of Baker Street, glad to know that Sherlock was still willing to accept his help on cases. While he was still able to do it, at least.

Giving the directions to the cab driver, John sat back and tugged at his dark red jumper, wishing he had gone for one that wasn't so noticeable. A nice tan jumper would let him blend in with any crowd, all nice and subtle in the background of things. He didn't guess himself lucky enough to have kept this a secret, but he was gladly surprised when he showed up at the scene. Sally and Anderson didn't send him pitying looks, and Lestrade even managed to keep his face nice and welcoming.

"Come, John, take a look for yourself." Sherlock's voice commanded from the opening of the small alleyway nearby. Sighing at the welcome normality of it all, John obliged and kneeled beside the grotesque body, wincing at the smell. It looked like the body had been submerged in water for at least two or three days, with a single slit across the poor bloke's throat. The body was completely dry, save the swelling leftover from the soaking. He had no clue how it had ended up on the streets. Sharing his findings with Sherlock, the detective only nodded impatiently, rolling his eyes to signal that he already knew all of that information.

"What else am I supposed to see?" John groaned, rubbing at his temple and looking around the scene with a frown. His flatmate huffed with impatience, sending him the well known 'you're-an-idiot' look. The second time he looked around, the doctor took his time and tried to collect every detail possible. That's when he noticed the half-dried shoeprints leading down the alleyway to the other side of a bin. "There, Sherlock, the prints."

"Ah!" Sherlock nodded proudly, throwing a momentary look towards the waiting officers before grabbing John's sleeve and dragging him down the long pathway far faster than needed. They didn't even make it to the bin before the tall scruffy man jumped up from his hiding place and lunged at them with a long kitchen knife. Sherlock easily sidestepped the stab, but John wasn't as lucky. He was half out of breath from the sprint, bent over and coughing when the murderer managed to slice at his side with the blade. Luckily, before a second cut was made, Lestrade had shot him in the shoulder to stop him in his tracks.

John was on his knees when Sherlock got to his side, his coughing worse than before. The shock from being injured was irritating the invisible catch in his throat.

"Fuck," The hardly uttered swear from the doctor sent a fraction of an astonished expression across Sherlock's features, until John was back to muttering proper company swears under his breath. "I need to get back to the flat."

Sherlock simply nodded, even helping the man to his feet before hollering for a cab. Bypassing Lestrade's calls, the two were shuffling their way to the taxi. Still coughing, John managed to cover the bleeding would with a hand and the luck of his red jumper. The ache drove through John, but frustration drove through Sherlock. By the look of things, running was quickly going to have to be cut completely out of the picture for the two of them. That meant less chases around London, which would make it a bit more difficult for him to track down criminals. Surely the doctor could cave and take his brothers money for the treatment? Didn't the man want to be back to his old self already? Even though John was slowing down operations and causing trouble that didn't need to be caused, Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to hesitate inviting him to another crime scene. That was the whole point of offering him the service of Mycroft, was it not? It was all being done to keep John at his side. There would be no abandoning him this early on, though there was a ninety-eight point three percent chance that he was going to get worse before he was going to get better.

When they arrived at 221B, John made a beeline for where he stored his medical kit. Sherlock, feeling an odd sense of helpfulness, went to heat up the kettle. The doctor made quick work of the small wound, lacing it up with the few stitches needed before bandaging it up nice and neat. Sherlock watched as his friend winced and pressed at the cut, making sure it was clean and ready to heal up. After finishing and putting away the kit, John was surprised to see that Sherlock had done half the work with preparing tea for the two of them. The teabags were already waiting in two mugs, the water hot and the milk already sitting on the counter.

"Thanks." John said, flashing a small smile in the detective's direction before finishing off their drinks and scuffing his wait to his chair. Sighing as he sat, he shook his head and closed his eyes, enjoying the heat that was radiating from between his hands. John didn't hear Sherlock sit across from him, but he could feel the eyes staring at him. The silence dragged on, neither of them knowing how to break it. They might have had the same things on their mind, but it was hardly a similar situation. Sherlock cleared his throat, preparing to speak when John opened his eyes and shook his head slowly.

"Sherlock, thank you for contacting Mycroft," The detective made a face at the name, still carrying on the ridiculous pretense that he hated the man. "And for letting me come to the crime scene. I know what's on your mind. I know you're wondering how much longer you can keep me around like this, when the past few times we've gone out I've been either a coughing mess or ending up wheezing for breath for ten minutes. I really, well, I guess I still haven't come to terms with it all. It's hard for me. Y'know? Well, no, you can't know. I've already been strong John Watson, fast and sturdy John. I was the best surgeon on base in Afghanistan, that's why I was sent to do the difficult fieldwork. Failed me only that once, when I got shot in the bloody shoulder. I even came back from that. You came along, fixed my psycho-whatever limp and got me fighting this crazy war around London with you. And here I am, messing up again, just like last time. Things got too good. I had everyone bandaged up nice and good, transport was on their way and we were heading back to base when the sniper was aiming for us. Got Thomas right in the skull after I had patched up his broken leg. Hit me in the shoulder while I was trying to get the gun from his belt," John sighed, subconsciously rubbing at his shoulder. "It's like that all over again. Here we are, having a nice life battling the villains of the streets. You're my Thomas this time, I think. Patched you up, made you a bit like a person, got you a couple friends rather than just co-workers. Nearly got you shot in the head at that pool even," He let out a dry laugh that turned into a short cough. "And now I'm broken again. Shoved into the dirt with a bleeding wound, 'cept this time I'll be stuck in the bleeding flat with damaged lungs."

They sat in silence after John's little speech, both of them wondering what it all meant. He got better from the shoulder wound, so of course, he could bounce back from this, yeah?

"John," Sherlock started fifteen minutes later, dropping his empty mug on the desk beside him before leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Let Mycroft help you. It's like you've got your limp all over again, and he's the one with the mad plan to reunite you with the insane lifestyle. You don't have to take his cars or doctors or any of that, but let us help you keep you alive."

John took his time to think about it. All he ever considered himself to have was his pride, and here he was, about to give it up. Sure, Sherlock helped him get rid of the limp, but that was because he was looking for adventure. This wasn't even in the same realm as that. This was a deadly clump of things in his lungs and he was looking for a way to just cut it out.

"All right, fine," He conceded, dropping his head and staring at his hands. John would not look into Sherlock's eyes as he turned himself over to the hands of the British Government and the Consulting Detective. "I'll let him do whatever he wants. I want to live."


	5. Expectancy

It was a Tuesday. To most, it would be like any other Tuesday. For John, it would be the day he finally got to talking to the oncologist he had picked. Doctor Ford was the lead on his case, flying to London all the way from Texas, in America. To say John was nervous was to say that grass was green. Marty, from the surgery he worked at, suggested that someone should go with John to the appointment, to be there for support. It sounded like a great idea, until John really thought about it. Sherlock would scoff at the idea, claiming his lack of sentiment and his dislike of social situations that dealt with such his emotions. Mrs. Hudson would likely be in worse shape than John himself, clinging to him and crying that he was too young to die. Lestrade was the kind of friend you went to the pub with, not the one you took to your cancer appointments.

So, Tuesday morning, John dug out his old tape recorder from the back of his desk drawer. Eight days after his original diagnosis, three days after he accepted that he would die before he had originally imagined, the doctor had decided he was in this alone. Emotionally, at least. Sure, Sherlock had gone as far as calling Mycroft for help, but the two of them wanted to keep the detective's only friend around. Mrs. Hudson burst into tears just about every time she saw him; there was hardly any way to get a word in around it. His most recently girlfriend had dumped him an hour after he had told her the news. She had done it in a text.

John watched himself in the mirror as he buttoned up his old red plaid shirt. He had bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep he had gotten the night before. He looked the same as ever. There were no signs of the beast in his chest, there didn't seem to be any change when he looked at himself. That part was one of the weirder parts. Shouldn't he look different, feel different, act different? All that had changed was the acceptance of certain death, and the occasional coughing fit.

Part of him hoped that the original diagnosis was wrong.

All of him knew it wasn't.

Half past noon, the doctor ran a hand through his hair and got to his feet. Dread was filling in his stomach as he bid goodbye to both his flatmate and landlady. John, in his last ditch attempt to have some control over his life, hailed a taxi. The cab ride seemed to take forever, although the road was less than jammed with traffic.

Walking the halls of Bart's was a strange feeling without Sherlock at his side. Not heading towards the morgue or Molly's lab was weird too. John took the lift up to level five, shuffling about to the front desk. He couldn't see the sick patients or smell the unfortunately familiar smell of death, but he could feel the negativity. The three people sitting in waiting chairs all looked different from him, and from each other. The elderly man was reading a magazine, relaxed back against the chair. If it weren't for the oxygen tank beside him, John would have thought him to be in good shape. The middle-aged woman looked like she had a cold, or perhaps some other virus. That gave him hope. The younger man, the one about John's age, was the one who frightened him most. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were dark. His skin was ghastly pale and it seemed that if he moved too much at once, he would snap in half.

After signing in to the front desk, John was sent to a room at the end of the corridor. His doctor was already there, waiting for him and making notes on his clipboard.

"Ah, Doctor Watson," The tall man greeted, stepping up from his seat and holding out his hand. He had a strong grip, John noted. "I'm Doctor Ford, but please, call me Sawyer."

"As long as you call me John." He countered, taking the seat opposite the large mahogany desk. Having been on the other side of the desk so many times, John had earlier been confident that he would have this meeting in the bag. It was only as they sat there in momentary silence that he realised his diagnoses of colds and broken ankles had nothing on this.

"So, John, before we begin, do you have any questions?" Doctor Ford asked, brushing his long golden-blond hair from his face. The man looked like a classic Californian surfer, not one of the highest-ranking oncologists in the world from Texas. Shaking his head, John pulled out the tape recorder and turned it on as the other began to talk about lung cancer in great detail. More than John had ever heard before. If Marty's suggestion of stage 3 cancer was correct, things weren't looking too great for him.

"We'll be doing a bronchoscopy for confirmation. It's easily and painless. All you'll end up with is a sore throat for a couple days," Eying John's confused expression, the doctor continued. "A bronchoscopy is a tiny tube that can give us a nice view of your airways and lungs. I'll use a flexible one, that way if there are any tumors, I can take a biopsy of it. With that biopsy, results will be known in mere days. As soon as we figure out exactly what this is, the sooner we can set up a plan to combat it. And, of course, the sooner we combat it, your chances of a long life rise greatly."

The doctor explained every tiny little detail of the bronchoscopy and the tests that followed. From the chest exam that followed, and the excruciatingly long look at the x-rays from before, Sawyer frowned and made more notes on his little clipboard. The silence was eating John alive. Slowly.

"Unfortunately, it looks like your associate, Doctor Steinbrook, was correct in his analysis."

John's chest felt hollow. After the surprisingly quick bronchoscopy and biopsy, his chest felt scratchy.

Their conversation didn't last much longer after that.

The next two days flew by before John could count them. Between three different crime scenes (all by the same murderer, thankfully) and a long day and a half at the surgery, John was ready to sleep for days on end. Alas, that plan didn't work out so well. His alarm went off loud and far too close to his head. John jumped to his feet when he remembered what that alarm meant. Everything revolved around this day. These test results were either going to confirm his damnation, or relieve him of impossible stress.

Sherlock, again, offered no words of comfort or encouragement as John sat in his chair and tugged on his shoes. As much as he didn't expect it, he was almost hoping for it. Stupid of him, of course. There was no way Sherlock would do that in the first place, let alone when he was acting as if nothing was going on. The detective sat and complained about John's boring tan jumper, and hissed about an experiment not going the way he wanted it to, and the complete lack of critical thinkers on the police force.

Between his flatmate's utter normalcy and trying to avoid his inconsolable landlady, John was nearly late for his appointment. The traffic was jammed as ever, and it seemed as if he had gotten the one cab in London that Sherlock hadn't gotten in before. Which was a good thing, actually, because the driver didn't take him the long way about or charged him extra as payback. It would have been a nice ride, if the destination had been a different one.

John took his time getting up to the fifth floor. He had stopped the cab a block away, wanting to walk the rest of the way, even if that meant he would end up in the lobby with a coughing fit clinging to his chest. There was no way he was going to give up walking short distances just because his body refused to agree with him on it. Deciding the stairs were a little too much for him this time, John took the lift back up to level five and once again signed in at the front desk before walking down the hall to the now familiar office.

He froze with his hand just a few centimeters from the handle. He couldn't do this. How could John just walk into his death sentence like this? No, no, not like this. No one would stop him if he just turned around and went back to the flat and made tea and went to acting like everything was back to normal. Sure, Mrs. Hudson would be different around him and Mycroft would probably try to force him into treatment and Sherlock would give him looks that told him he wasn't good enough to be his assistant anymore, but he'd still have everything together. He'd have his life together. Maybe he didn't cry during the first meeting, or in the two days since (the first days he hadn't fallen asleep crying since he found out the news), but that didn't hold much promise for this meeting.

Finally after three minutes of standing stock-still in front of the door, he caved and opened it. Sawyer was already standing and leaning against his desk, a file open in his hands.

"Hello, John, sit, please." He greeted, glancing up from the documents just for a moment before going back to his reading. Doing as he was told, John sat in the same chair as last time. Pulling out the recorder again, he waited nervously, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants.

Coughing a little and taking the time of silence to look around the room, John noticed that the man managed to bring along a few photos from America. From what it looked like, Doctor Ford had a wife and two children. The problem was, in one of the pictures, one of the two children was in a hospital bed. It all became obvious after that. He was so passionate about research and treatments for cancer because his son had cancer. And died from it, by looking at the picture of him, his wife and only one son. When the doctor was finally sitting in his seat and setting down the file, John tried to look as though he hadn't figured it all out. It worked, apparently.

"John, I've got bad news."

John's heart sunk. Through his stomach and to his toes, John's body was going numb. It shouldn't be surprised; hell, he had already come to the conclusion that he was sick. But this, this was stone cold confirmation. There was no going back. He couldn't turn and walk out that door and pretend like those words were never said. He couldn't go back to running around with Sherlock and pretending that the day he keeled over would be from a crazy murderer sticking around a scene.

Nodding at the appropriate times, all the information he was receiving was going through one ear and out the other. Good thing he brought the tape recorder again. Dully, he noted that the doctor mentioned that it wasn't from smoking, or second hand smoke even. He could have guessed that easily. The poor air of London and the dry land of Afghanistan had done him all kinds of wrong. John had left the war with more than just a gunshot wound, apparently. It wasn't completely uncommon for soldiers to come back with infections or off kilter diseases, the problem was when they didn't get it diagnosed and treated.

How was he supposed to react to this? A few websites told him the typical response was the five stages of grief, but he felt like he was going about it all wrong. He definitely denied it as much as possible, but he hadn't been overly angry about it. There was no bargaining. Depression seemed to be littered with confusion more than actual sadness, and he had already come to accept an early death. He had lived through the Afghan war, and his own personal war in London. Now he was at war with himself. The thought of living to a ripe old age had never occurred to him. Having kids and a wife and a nice little home in the country were long forgotten. He hadn't considered that life since before he sighed up for the military.

So, John sat there. Listening to explanations of surgery and chemotherapy and radiation therapy. He didn't comment on anything, he just nodded and made the appropriate sounds needed. Tears didn't come; anger and fury didn't stop by. It was really nothing like he expected. John just felt like an empty shell of himself.

What was Sherlock going to do without him? The man could barely function like a normal human being even with John's help. He didn't know how he did it before, and Lord help him if he were to go without the constant reminders of ordinary things. Half the time John had to remind him to eat or sleep before he passed out, once he had even had to tell him to start breathing again. Sherlock wasn't going to be able to afford the rent at Baker Street anymore. Where would he go? Would he find another flatmate and start over again? Would there be a new John Watson at his side? Perhaps he could find someone in better shape, without an imaginary bum leg and a wanky shoulder. Knowing him, he'd never accept help from Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade or Mycroft on finding a new flat. He'd continue on, alone as ever, claiming his body transport and the rest of the world idiotic.

Harry would probably be in too much of a drunken stupor to make it to his funeral. It had taken him three days to even contact her and tell her that he had cancer.

A small little funeral. That'd be nice. A handful of friends from the surgery and the Yard and maybe even some of his old military buddies. John reminded himself to make a comment in his will about being cremated instead of buried.

With a start, John shook his head and sighed, rubbing his hand through his hair and going back to listening to the oncologist. He was getting ahead of himself. Sawyer had barely finished telling him about what 'stage 3' even meant. His tumor was seven centimeters and there were a few tiny ones on his lymph nodes on the same side of his chest as the larger tumor. 3A, it was called. Easy for surgery, but it needed to be shrunk down first.

John would be good for chemotherapy, Sawyer had told him. He was young and fit and strong and had proven himself to be a fast healer.

Instead of paying a huge amount of attention to the specifics of what the chemo would do to him, he compiled a list of questions.

"It's a good thing we caught this at the early start of stage 3, because if it had gotten to stage 4, things would be a lot more difficult for us," Sawyer told him, crossing his legs and taking a long glance at John's medical records in the file he had been reading earlier. John had spaced out so long that he hadn't caught that earlier. Sherlock would be disappointed. "Well, I think that's all we need to talk about for today. Any questions for me before you go, John?"

Only one popped into the forefront of his mind.

"How long do I have to live?" John frowned, looking up from his hands on his knees to his doctor.

"Best case scenario? No more than five years. Most common like expectancy at this stage? Fifteen months."


	6. Treatment

John walked home in a daze. After spending over two hours talking about and hashing out every tiny little detail of his future with his doctor, John was at a loss. He didn't know what he was supposed to do.

Fifteen months. Fifteen months to five years, that's all he had left. Confirmed. Not 'possibly' or 'there's a chance'. The time he had left to run around on wild missions with Sherlock was even less than that. A month, maybe.

He didn't know how to share that particular bit of news with his flatmate. Sherlock would certainly see him to be useless, once he was ill from chemotherapy. John would have to quit the surgery until he was better. Money would be a bit tight; he'd have to cut back on letting Sherlock use his milk for experiments if he wanted any to drink.

Barely registering that he had arrived at Baker Street, John shrugged off his coat and shuffled into the kitchen to make tea. Seeing as the detective was at the Yard bugging Lestrade about misinformation in a cold case file, he had time to sit and collect himself before facing anyone and sharing the results.

John froze with his mug halfway to his mouth, frowning.

"Deja vu." He muttered, scrubbing his hand through his hair. More and more times over these past two weeks, John had felt like he had relived the same days far too many times. He had the same thoughts and the same feelings and the same worries. His friends all reacted the same to everything he told them. Is that what this sickness did to him? Made his life seem like a tiny little circle that he just traveled around, revisiting the same conversations day after day?

In no time, he was sharing the newest part of his story to his flatmate and landlady. As expected, Sherlock took the news with a steely expression while Mrs. Hudson clutched to John's arm and cried about him being too young for death. When John went out for a pint that night in hopes to clear his head, the handful of Yard officers that were there, including Lestrade, helped him by buying round after round for him as consolation.

Time seemed to fly by, over the next few days. Cabs and crime scenes and working at the surgery and far too many black cars taking him to warehouses that held nothing but Mycroft, John could hardly pick one day from the next. The next he knew, he was getting in a cab and heading to the hospital. It was the time for action, not for talking things over and making choices. John was at a good spot in his cancer development, meaning he could get intensive treatment and come out on the better side of it. Mycroft and Doctor Sawyer's team all agreed it was better to start sooner rather than later.

So there he was, standing at his doctor's door, hand raised and ready to knock. As it had been for the past three minutes. But every muscle in him seemed to be freezing up. John could readily admit it: he was scared. Sure, he wanted treatment and he wanted to get better and he wanted to live as long as he possibly could, but just, shit. Chemotherapy. It sounded horrifying, and he didn't want to do it.

John felt like he stood there for fifteen, twenty, maybe even thirty minutes, when in reality, it wasn't even a full five. He was cautious meeting the other doctors, but they were all warm and welcoming and reassuring.

"Doctor Charlie Pace," A young, rugged looking man announced, holding out his hand. John shook it before he was introduced to the rest. "Doctors Sayid Jarrah, Ben Linus, and Juliet Burke."

Greeting each of them, he felt strange knowing that these people already knew not only his name, but also his condition. John had told not but a few people, and here stood a group knowing the ups and downs of every little thing that his life was about to turn into. There were more people in this room that knew about his illness than did outside of this room. Feeling uncomfortable at the thought, John just nodded with everything that he was being told. He followed wherever he was lead, did the things he was told to do.

Half an hour into his appointment, he was settled into a large chair, arm prepped and at the ready for an IV. John watched the team explain and show him each of the things that were about to happen, but his mind was wondering. Even the medical side of him wasn't overly intrigued by the specific medicines inside the bag or the exact things that would happen to his body. He flinched when the needle pushed into his arm, but didn't turn away from the sight.

John hadn't had too many IV's in his day, but enough to feel the difference between a simple saline solution and the concoction that made up his new treatment. There wasn't an immediate effect felt from the drugs, but not before long, he was beginning to feel nauseous.

Closing his eyes and leaning his head into the soft leather of the chair, John took deep breaths through his nose and tried to relax himself enough to nap. He was going to be stuck in that same spot for hours, after all, and the long he sat there, the longer he worried about trivial things.

He wondered how long it would take until his hair began to fall out, or how long it would take for him to be so bothered by the side effects that he'd have to not only stop running around with Sherlock, but he'd have to quit the surgery. Through the mass of thoughts, he managed to fall into a light sleep. Oddly enough, his dreams were full of odd mutterings that sounded a whole lot like Sherlock's voice. Just over an hour into his rest, he startled awake by an impatient grunt. At first, he thought it was just another part of his dream, but he was greatly mistaken.

Beside him, in a duplicate chair but without an IV, sat Sherlock Holmes himself, flipping through a trash magazine. John blinked twice, rubbing his eyes with the fist that wasn't weighed down with a needle.

"Ah, John! Finally you're awake," His flatmate began, tossing away the rag mag before pulling a small stack of photos from the pocket of his coat. "Take a look at these photographs and tell me what you see. I need your keen second opinion to make sure of my findings."

"Um," John frowned, coughing a little and hesitantly taking the photos from the detective. He blinked twice, clearing his vision of sleep so he could properly look at the pictures. "Well, the victim was obviously shot and stabbed, but by two different people. He's... Middle aged, unmarried, well off?" Glancing at Sherlock, he continued nervously. "Looks like a home robbery, but here... This picture here, of the man's home, this is an original piece of art. And that's an expensive Ming vase."

"Yes!" Sherlock clapped, leaning towards John and smirking just a little. "Then why is the man missing his wallet and mobile phone?"

John took a minute, evaluating each photo slowly and casting anxious looks at his friend. If he didn't succeed helping the detective like this, then perhaps his worries of being tossed out on his arse were right on target.

"I'd say identity theft. The drawers here, the only things that were taken look to be like personal statement documents, things that would have all the information needed for someone to take over his life." His flatmate nodded eagerly, storing the pictures back into his pocket and smiling at John proudly. John watched as Sherlock shot off a text, probably to Lestrade about the case.

It was nice, having Sherlock there. There wasn't any need for words of support or comfort. Just having the man there was not only reassuring, but was a huge surprise. John didn't expect to receive any recognition of his disease, let alone to have Sherlock actually sitting there, back to turning the pages of a gossip column.

After his days worth, five bloody hours of sitting in the same spot without eating or drinking anything but water, John was more than relieved to get the IV removed from his elbow. Pushing himself up from the plush seat, he groaned and stumbled a bit, clutching onto the arms of the chair with a frown. So much movement was forcing the nausea on him at a much higher force than before.

"Oh, bloody hell." He moaned, clutching his head and closing his eyes to will away the swimming feeling. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him under his shoulder and helped him straighten up. John peeked through his eyelids to see a straight-faced Sherlock holding onto him and waiting for him to gather himself enough to walk on his own. John muttered thanks, eventually getting to his feet by himself and taking a few short steps to confirm that he could do it. The detective simply nodded, re-wrapping his scarf around his neck as the two of them bid goodbye to the doctors and headed towards the street for a cab.

When they finally made it to Baker Street, John had to go straight to the bathroom before he even hung up his coat. The cab driver hadn't been the best out there, and the quick turns made his stomach churn. Flushing away all the evidence of his sickness, the doctor groaned and splashed water on his face, wishing the heat away. That's when he noticed the change. He had wondered how long it would be before he started looking ill, and his reflection held the answer. Already, his skin was more pale than normal; his eyes were sunken and dull.

"John! Lestrade wants us to go down to the station to explain the identity theft case to him and his stooges. Are you coming?" Sherlock called from the living space, obviously impatient and waiting for his answer. John shouted out his yes, hurrying to pop a couple breath mints before following Sherlock down and out of 221B. Jogging to catch up before the cab took off, John sighed and leaned back in the seat, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. He felt exhausted, but he knew that if he let Sherlock go alone, there was a very good chance of getting banned. Again. All he wanted it a steaming mug of tea and crap telly and his warmest jumper, but he had to remind himself that Sherlock was still top priority while he could physically handle him.

Handing over the right amount of money, John trailed Sherlock into the building and straight to Lestrade's office. A few of the officers looked at them, no more than the normal amount. But it was different; the officers seemed to be looking at him moreso than the consulting detective. Lestrade didn't notice at first, but when John sat down across the desk from him and added to Sherlock's rant about the lack of actual stolen goods, the DI blinked at him worriedly. John waved him off, not wanting to discuss it when he saw Donovan lingering outside the doors. This was his personal business, and there was absolutely no need for someone like her to know it and spread it around. Hell, knowing her and Anderson, they would go about and tell everyone that it was somehow Sherlock's doing.

After Sherlock had given over all of his reasoning and evidence, Lestrade pulled John aside and frowned at him.

"You look a bloody mess, Watson." He said, raising an eyebrow and glancing over at Sherlock, who was rummaging through the DI's desk drawers.

"Thanks," John huffed a laugh, grimacing when it turned into a cough. "It's not him, if you're wondering. I've just started chemo." Lestrade's lips parting as he nodded understandingly, patting the doctor on his shoulder and giving him a good once-over to make sure he wasn't really as fragile as he looked.

"Donovan's going to be asking questions." Greg noted, motioning his head towards the pesky woman still hovering around the office.

"Tell her to bugger off, unless she wants me to explain the details of healing herpes at the next crime scene I'm at." He mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest self-consciously. He knew he looked pale and sickly, but certainly it could pass off as a cold, right? No one could make him tell such intimate details of his life with people he hardly liked.

With a nod in Lestrade's direction, John was off in Sherlock's wake, following him to the cab that was already pulling up. Traffic was at a bit of a build up, and Sherlock was too busy talking to himself to talk to John. Tugging his coat closer around him, he blinked hard and watched the scenery pass by outside the window. The muddy gray sky and the fatigue from the chemotherapy were both starting to creep their ways into his body. His mind was feeling groggy, and he suspected that if he didn't get some tea in him soon, he'd fall asleep before even getting his shoes off.

Sherlock could see it happening as it went. The ache to John's system was penetratingly deep, and though it hadn't shown too much ware on him yet, it wouldn't be soon before long that he'd be out of the game. Involving him in miniscule ways like this would help rid him of the idiotic notion that Sherlock would leave him on the side of the road purely because the man couldn't take long jogs around London on cases.

Turning to the doctor to question him about Mycroft's latest kidnapping, Sherlock realised that John wouldn't hear a word that he said. The small man was asleep in the seat of the cab. He pondered with the idea of shaking the man awake, but recalling the way he looked during his chemical treatment earlier stopped him from such a rough arousal. Sherlock may not have been a caring person, but watching his (only) friend deteriorate in a mere few hours was a good way of temporarily changing his attitude. Watson had helped him many a time on cases and with annoying social situations, the least he could do for the man in return was not rudely awaken him before they made it back to the flat. That would guarantee him no tea for the rest of the evening, and that didn't seem like a promising prospect.

When they finally made it to Baker Street, Sherlock was still on the fence about waking up his friend. Instead of shouting into his ear to get out of the cab, Sherlock grabbed a note from his own pocket, paid the driver, and lifted John from the seat. He set him to his feet as soon as they were free from the car, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for him to wake fully from his surprisingly deep slumber.

John stared up at him for a moment, confused by the sudden appearance at Baker Street, but he quickly recovered, nodding his approval of the kind gesture and started up to the kitchen, mumbling about how tea was needed for the both of them. As sick as he was going to get, it seemed like things would be all right between the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shh, I stole the doctor's names from LOST.  
> Also thanks to: cancer dot gov, cancerhelp dot org, and medicinenet dot com, my research materials.


	7. Dealing

"How long has he been out?" John couldn't place the voice, but it didn't sound too far away from him.

"Eighty-seven minutes." Another voice replied, sounding far more irritated than the other.

"And yob rot em ir?" He hoped he was dozing off, because otherwise there was something seriously wrong with his hearing.

Soon enough the sounds dulled enough for him to fall back asleep, but not before he placed names on the two and everyone's current location. Sherlock and Lestrade were in the chairs by the fireplace, and he was splayed out on the couch up against the wall. Odd, the last thing John could recall is making idle conversation with Sherlock as he got another dosage of his chemotherapy. Huh, maybe the talking was all a dream. That would make more sense than being back at Baker Street already.

By the time he woke up again, the talking had gone, but there was still a sound from the same general direction. Rubbing at his eyes and groaning, John looked over his shoulder to see his flatmate curled up in his chair, watching some rubbish late night American talk show. He frowned, wincing as he pushed himself into a sitting position. At the same time, Sherlock's head snapped away from the telly and towards him, a curious look gracing the detective's face.

"John, you're awake." Sherlock simply stated, nodding to himself and assessing the doctor from across the room.

Nodding and rubbing at his eyes again, John groaned. His body ached like that time he had jogged half of London just to throw himself on top of the criminal until Lestrade showed up. He tried to stand up, but his legs felt heavy, like his feet were made of bricks. Wavering in his seat, John looked at Sherlock with utter confusion written all over his face. He could swear he had last been in that plush office chair with the IV in his arm and Sherlock at his side, commenting on the degeneration of the various patients he had seen in each of his visits to the hospital.

"W-what happened?" He moaned, leaning his entire weight back against the couch, his eyes dropping closed. How could John be exhausted after having slept for... Well, until fairly late at night, it seemed.

"Halfway through your chemotherapy treatment, your body gave out under the stress and you fainted. Once your treatment was completed for the day, and you had not woken, I retrieved you and brought you back here," Sherlock answered, standing and bringing a cup of tea to John. "Mrs. Hudson made it." He reassured, knowing John wouldn't trust him after the last time, when he had added a laxative for an experiment.

John frowned when he struggled to reach out for the tea, but was saved the energy by it being placed in his hand. Sighing and sipping at the still warm tea, he was already starting to feel better.

"Wait, you brought me back? You carried me or something?" He asked, wide-eyed and gaping at his friend.

"Of course not," Sherlock rolled his eyes, motioning towards the new addition to Baker Street, over by the door. "The hospital allowed me to use one of their wheelchairs." John just nodded along, his ears buzzing a little around the edges. As the tea cooled, he started realising more accurately the vague memories from earlier. He really had heard Sherlock and Lestrade talking, but it didn't make any more sense now than it did earlier.

Once he got his bearings, he slowly got to his feet and shuffled to the kitchen with the intentions to make another cuppa. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on his back, but he didn't comment on the odd feeling of being watched by his flatmate. Leaning heavily on the counter after setting the water to boil, John coughed into his fist and winced at the clench it brought to his chest.

"Cup?" He asked over his shoulder, holding back another cough as he stretched to grab a mug for Sherlock, knowing the answer would be a yes before he even asked. John gasped to catch his breath, chewing on the inside of his cheek to hide the pain. Reaching up like that definitely was too much activity for his tired body. A sound from behind him caught his attention, and he turned in time to see Sherlock take the milk out of the fridge. Blinking, surprised, John raised a curious eyebrow that Sherlock promptly ignored.

A few minutes later, tea made and seats taken, John let his chin drop to his chest, exhaustion still rocking through his body. Sherlock had left the telly on and was paying very little attention to it, his eyes flickering constantly to his flatmate. The two if them sat in silence, surreptitiously watching each other.

"You should sleep." Sherlock spoke up after watching the sick man yawn for a long moment into his nearly empty mug. John just grunted, curling down into his seat and huffing, far too comfortable in the warm seat to take the energy to hobble up to his cold bed. He was awfully tired though, and keeping his eyes open seemed to be a chore. He gave in as soon as his tea was gone, though, and after struggling to push himself off the chair, he was on edge, considering sleeping on the couch just so he wouldn't have to struggle up the stairs.

"Give me a hand?" He asked weakly, his eyes on the ground by his bare feet instead of towards his flatmate. After three weeks of chemo, there really wasn't much he should feel uncomfortable with, but John was still uncomfortable about letting Sherlock see how weak he really was. Though, if he saw himself in the mirror, he'd realise that Sherlock knew exactly how frail his body was.

When he turned to look at Sherlock, he frowned. John eyed his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, wincing at the look of his pale skin and sunken cheeks. He looked like walking death, and yet Sherlock hadn't pointed it out to him. That was kind of him, he supposed, no matter the reason behind it.

"You can stay in my room, John, I won't be using it." Sherlock told him, standing and setting away his mug nonetheless. The detective took John's arm and pulled it up and over his shoulder, grabbing him around his chest to help him walk up the stairs. John grunted, holding his breath every other step only to let it out in an unfortunate huff in the next.

"Wait, wait." John stopped halfway up the stairs, clutching the railing with his free hand and closing his eyes. Nausea welled up in his throat, throwing his head into a spin. He closed his eyes, the doctor inside him reminding him to take deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth. Shaking his head slowly and reopening his eyes, he simply nodded and slowly started his way back upstairs.

Sherlock had been good dealing with John's problems and reactions to the hard-hitting therapy, helping him around the house and even being patient with him at the handful of crime scenes the doctor made it to. He had reverted back to his cane, which made him slower, but it made him a lot more self-sufficient than he would have been otherwise. The chemo left him constantly tired and sick, and it was hell for him to do much of anything. John's days at the surgery were cut away completely, Sarah insisting that he needed all of his time and focus to getting himself better and back to full capacity. As for his days at the Yard and around crime scenes and working other cases, John refused to give them up so easily. He had limped into Lestrade's office the week before, ashamed to be back to using his cane, afraid that he was looking as gray as the clouds lingering outside, but pleased with himself for having left the house at all. Sherlock had complimented him with hardly any sarcasm, after that.

By the time they made it upstairs, John was coughing and out of breath, a hand clinging to Sherlock's shirt while the other grappled for purchase on the wall.

Without a word from Sherlock, the two of them stood there until he was able to collect himself enough to stumble towards his bed. The detective stood in the doorway once John managed to take his shoes off, watching his every move with a concerned look furrowed between his eyes.

"I'm fine," He muttered, peeling off his jumper and avoiding his friend's eyes. It ended like this every night that John had therapy, and he always hated it. Sherlock would stand there for half an hour, keeping an eye on him as if he was breakable from the slightest movements. "Sherlock just go do an experiment or something, I'm fine."

John sighed, studiously ignoring Sherlock as he stripped to his pants and shambled under his bed sheets. Twisting up onto his side, he winced as another cough came, causing him to bend in half and clutch at the pillow for support. Frowning, John stared at the hand he had coughed into for a moment before grabbing a tissue and wiping away the blood that he had spewed. The detective didn't make a sound, but he went to the adjoined bathroom to get John a glass of water for his nightstand before hesitating at the door for another three minutes. It was shorter than his normal, but that was only because John had fallen asleep before the glass was even set on his side table.

If the doctor wanted Sherlock to experiment, than that was exactly his plan. With a quick trip to Mrs. Hudson's (bless her and her five pin tumbler lock system), he had all of the materials needed, and with the use of his laptop, he had all of the information needed to continue his little project.

It was much simpler than he initially assumed, though his first trial effort suggested otherwise.

Seven hours later and three successful attempts on this new craft, Sherlock heard his partner moving around upstairs. With only a short amount of time left before the doctor would make an appearance downstairs, Sherlock grabbed the remaining supplies and went downstairs to secretly return the items to the landlady. And retrieve some already made tea and muffins, while he was at it. Dealing with John would be much easier if there was a properly made breakfast without possibility of poisoning.

"Did you get any sleep at all?" John asked when he eventually scuttled his way down the stairs, far less groggy and nauseas than the night before. Though he held onto the railing and braced himself against the wall almost at all times, he wasn't using his old cane, which was a pleasant change. He was always in a much worse mood when it was used.

"I slept the night before last, I'm fine." Came Sherlock's response as he returned to the living space with a tray of breakfast goodies. He could hear the doctor's complaints about that, but ignored them in favor for setting the tea tray beside John's chair. He watched as his flatmate slowly moved across the room to his chair, waiting on bated breath if he was needed. Once it was obvious that John could make it on his own, he took his own mug and began drinking it eagerly, ignoring the scolding heat in favor for the flavor. With a glare from the sick doctor, Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed one of the blueberry muffins from the tray, picking at it just to please his friend.

"What are those?" John's voice broke through the silence before he even got to his tea. Pretending to ignore him and the finger that was pointing to the desk beside Sherlock, the detective took a rather large bite of his muffin to avoid answering. "Sherlock, what in the world are they?"

"Hats," He eventually grunted, huffing and setting down the remains of his breakfast, grudgingly looking at the material next to him. "Knitted hats." Without another word, he sprung to his feet and hurried into the kitchen, ignoring the questions that followed. Pressing his face into his microscope, Sherlock didn't notice the way John's face changed from utterly confused to almost understanding.

"Ow," John groaned, leaning over and grabbing the hat on the top of the small pile. Turning the dark blue beanie between his fingers, a little smile lingered on his lips as he pulled it over his head. It was tightly knitted, the perfect size and shape for his head. "How did you know it would fit?" He asked, wincing as he stood to look at his reflection. His pale skin nearly clashed against the dark of the hat, but it fit him well. If he could manage it, he'd run over and give Sherlock a hug.

"Easy," Sherlock mumbled, waving off the issue. He glanced up for a moment to look at John, eying the way his creation looked on him. "Your military issue beret was a good enough base for the start, and with the assist of Mrs. Hudson's supplies, I was able to create a handful of hats. For you," He hesitated for a good few minutes, looking cautiously at John. "They match my scarf."

John blinked, surprised, glancing from his reflection to Sherlock in the kitchen to the scarf on the coat rack over his shoulder. He smiled again, the weak, sick smile that had overtaken his normal broad one, but he smiled nonetheless.

"Thanks, Sherlock, they're great." He told him, patting himself on the head for a moment before sitting back down and drinking his tea. John looked at the beanies on the desk, glanced back up at the mirror where he was just looking, and sighed. As welcome as the enormously thoughtful gift was, he knew what it meant, as well. The chemo had gotten to him all the way, now. He had noticed it, slowly over the past week, in the shower mostly. His hair was starting to fall out. He had commented the other day, when they were walking up to the Yard, that his head was cold. Apparently that sent Sherlock to pick up knitting.

He felt warm inside, from the tea and the feeling the little gifts. There was nothing to worry about, he could tell from that morning especially. Sure, Sherlock was willing to sit with him during his appointments (he had made it to every single one, John noted) and even help him get around the house when he was gray as a ghost and feeling too weak to breath, but this was different. Sherlock had gone out of his way to make sure that John was comfortable. He would be warmer with the hat on, and he would be less self-conscious. After getting quiet after a rude comment Sally made about Sherlock being the cause for his sick pallor and his balding head, it seemed that Sherlock understood what John was thinking and decided to fix it himself.

Even if Sally and Anderson and the other officers kept commenting about his hollowing cheeks and deteriorating body, at least he knew he had a few friends that knew the truth. Lestrade always stood up for the detective and the doctor whenever a rude comment was made, and Mrs. Hudson had turned from a sobbing mess to a mothering mess. But it was a relief knowing tea would still be made and shopping would still get done.

It was even more of a relief to know that his best friend was really his best friend, through thick and thin, sickness and health.


	8. Surgery

For the first time in John's treatment, Sherlock wasn't there to help him back and forth to appointments. It was only recently that he had asked the detective to leave for the appointment with him instead of meeting up later, John was far too weak to do it alone at this point, but it was a disappointment nonetheless. There's a case, a difficult one with an unfortunate amount of leg work that John couldn't attend to, so Sherlock was off using his skills to the best of his abilities without being held back by his friend's deteriorating body. At first, those thoughts made him immensely sedate, but then he realised that it was for the best. There was no way he could let Sherlock give up the cases and puzzles just because he needed help getting to the loo.

On the upside, Sherlock had appointed Lestrade to that duty. Considering the DI actually knew full well the circumstances, he was willing to help with anything needed. He was a fair right cook, too, which greatly pleased John, and his chemo-riddled corpse. Foods that were too heavily flavored in any direction not only caused him pain, but forced him to relive the dining experience in reverse. The first time it happened, Lestrade was frightened that his cooking was as bad as his son claimed it to be, but with an explanation that it was the harsh drugs in his body, Greg settled and handed him mouthwash.

"Where'd you get that hat?" The DI asked mid-morning on a Wednesday, watching John as he pulled the dark blue beanie over his almost completely bald head.

"Oh, this? Uh, Mrs. Hudson knitted it for me," John wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate Lestrade knowing about his late night knitting habit (a handful more hats had appeared over the week after the first few show up). "Thought it'd be a nice way to hide the lack of hair."

John flashed his friend a grim smile. This was nothing someone should get used to, but it seemed like all John and Greg did was try to joke about the disease. It made it easier for the two of them to relax, otherwise the detective was constantly itching to fluff the doctor's pillows or refill the tea that hadn't been half emptied yet. This way they could watch Doctor Who reruns on the telly and pretend that John's bone rattling coughs was just him trying to hide his love for David Tennant.

"Ready to go?" Greg wondered aloud, holding out the cane for his friend to take. John just nodded, stifling a cough behind his hand as he limped towards the stairs. The last round of therapy had been brutal on him. His skin had gone from albino white to ghastly gray, his cheeks and eyes were sunken, his muscles weak and aching. He had lost almost all of his hair, the remaining looked as if it belonged to an eighty year old man. John almost felt like he was eighty. The cane didn't help.

"As ready as I'll ever be." The doctor muttered, taking his time down the stairs to the cab that was already waiting.

Despite the ache in his muscles, John was tense to his core. The feeling of dread was overwhelming him, and he could hardly hide the fact that he was nervous.

After four weeks of intense chemotherapy, it was finally time for John to have surgery.

Not a little surgery to remove a bullet or scraps from a bomb, but a major surgery that involved slicing up the side of him, taking out a piece of rib bone, and possibly removing some lung, depending on what the surgeon saw.

John was terrified, and the only person he had beside him was Greg. As much as he appreciated him and respected him and absolutely enjoyed getting a brew with him, John didn't consider Lestrade to be his first choice of people that he wanted to see when he woke up from surgery.

If he woke up, that is.

(His brain liked reminding him that he usually got the worst end of the stick and he'd probably overdose on general anesthesia or something).

He bid goodbye to Mrs. Hudson at the door, smiling at the way she managed to keep herself together as long as he was in front of her, now. It made him feel better, even though he knew she went back to tearfully praying for him to a God she didn't quite believe once he turned away.

Lestrade helped him into the car, frowning at the way John winced and gripped the seat. Even though the walk was short and there was less than twenty stairs, he was still running low on breath and had to close his eyes from getting dizzy. The worst parts of the chemotherapy were the side effects. The nausea and weakness made him so utterly exhausted, and it made it difficult for him to even help Sherlock with the case files he brought home.

It was a relief knowing it was through, but he wasn't any more psyched for the next part.

The hospital was busier than he had seen it before, but through all of his visits, he hadn't been to this wing yet. With the emptiness of the oncology department, John supposed that this would be the same. It was like hospitals he'd seen on telly more than any that he'd been to in person. Staff bustled around everywhere while people sat in bland chairs, coughing or bleeding or twisting the wrong way.

Lestrade nudged him, holding out a paper mask that he knew he was supposed to be wearing. His doctor had warned him about catching a bug while weakened from the chemo, and as much as he hated wearing the mask, he wasn't going to risk his health even more. Sighing and strapping on the mask, John sighed in without having to speak. The staff already knew him and were prepared for him, even though he was half an hour early for his appointment.

"Thanks for the ride, Greg." John said, gripping his friend's arm with as much strength as he could before a nurse approached them with a wheelchair.

"Call me if you need a ride, yeah?" Lestrade asked, clapping his friend on the shoulder before turning and leaving. The sick doctor waved him off, sighing and slouching in the wheelchair when the nurse rolled him off towards the private room Mycroft had secured for him. It was nice having a room all to himself, knowing there wouldn't be anyone around to see him broken and in pain.

Alone for no more than ten minutes, John dressed in the ridiculous backless dressing gown, frowning as he tried to cover up his bare skin.

"Knock knock," Said a voice from the doorway at the same time a fist hit the frame. John flushed and turned to hide his exposed back and smiled weakly at Doctor Pace. "Ready for prep?"

Preparing for surgery was hardly anything to be excited about, and not really anything one could say they were ready for. Although, the drugs John received addled him up enough so he didn't have a single complaint when Doctor Pace cut a large hole into his gown and began rubbing an odd colored cleaning agent on his skin. He shivered at the cold of the goo, but just smiled and watched the doctor do his work. Doctor Pace and Doctor Linus were the two that were going to be performing the surgery, with the other three watching over and performing all of the other tasks needed.

By the time John was feeling groggy from the medicines, he was lying on the hospital bed and humming to himself. Every few minutes, he'd stop and cough, a mix of the humming and the drugs bothering his chest. They were going to knock him out with drugs before using general anesthesia, telling John that it would be easier to get him stable with it if he was already asleep.

It wasn't long before he was transferred to the operation room. John was completely out by the time he got there, but it felt as if he actually knew what was going on.

John had heard of out of body experience before, but actually feeling something close to that was strange. The impossibility of actually floating above the surgery flew out of the door the moment John felt like he was watching Doctor Linus pressing the scalpel into his side. There was no pain to be felt, especially under all the drugs that were flowing through him, but he could feel the pressure of it. The bizarre force against his right side was barely there, a ghost touch in his mind but a deep push in reality.

No way, there was no way he could actually hear what they were saying. It was all a jumbled mess of words, not making any real sense, but he knew those voices and could place each one to a face. (Thankfully, the discussions he heard or made up were all about his cancer and the surgery).

Hours went by with John under the knife. After the weightless feeling of watching himself get worked on, everything disappeared. He couldn't see anything or feel anything or hear anything, and he supposed that was for the best. The mindless dreams of talking breakfast pasties and pants that could walk all on there own were somehow more comforting that seeing his own lung get sliced apart.

And then there was pain.

Blinding pain (that didn't blind him from the bright light shining through his eyelids).

Groaning, John's throat was scratchy with disuse and his entire chest seemed to ache.

His eyes eventually opened to his unfortunately white-walled hospital room, empty save the steady beeping of his monitors. Sighing and wincing at the pain even the simple exhale cause; John muttered curses to himself and tried to move. Exhaustion welled up in every muscle, leaving his limbs far too heavy to lift. That was all right though, seeing as how any sorts of movement sent searing pain up his right side. Every twist of his body drove spikes through him, enough to cast spots in his vision. It was nice and cool in the room, though, which counterbalanced the heat from the new wound in his side.

But more than all that, he realised he was alone.

John didn't hesitate falling back asleep once he figured that bit out.

Perhaps, when he woke the second time, there would be someone there. A doctor, a nurse. Maybe even Sherlock. (Hell, he'd take a sobbing Mrs. Hudson or a stony Mycroft over an empty room).

Hours later, when his room was pleasantly dimly lit, his hopes were dashed. The two large chairs on the left of his bed were empty, and to his right, the door that led to the hallway showed no one around. Sure, John considered, it was nice being able to adjust to his lack of mobility on his own, and it was good knowing that none of his friends would be around if he suddenly vomited from pain, but that small list of good didn't change the fact that he wanted someone there.

It didn't take long for someone to notice he was awake, and the nurse that had spotted his open eyes fluttered off to alert one of his specialists. Mycroft had made sure that no other group of people would see to his care.

John frowned at the sounds from outside his room, glancing nervously at the flurry of movement. Unless there was something wrong, the doctors shouldn't have been rushing around in any sort of huff.

And that's when he noticed that it wasn't the doctors alone making all the noise. Through the wall of windows, John saw many familiar faces. Three of his five doctors were there, along with two nurses, all poorly attempting to keep Sherlock from John's room. If he could swell with happiness at the site of his flatmate pushing his way through the small crowd, he would have. Other than the fact that it would have ripped his stitches and caused him a huge amount of pain, he was seriously tempted.

"John," He greeted, almost breathless as he shut the door behind him, blocking the staff from interrupting them. "You're awake."

Coughing and wincing, John small minutely, he flickered his fingers towards one of the spare chairs beside his bed. Sherlock seemed to hesitate, but quickly obliged him and scurried to the seat, a small flash of a smile gracing his alien features. He wanted to return the smile, but turning towards his friends was uncomfortable.

"Need painkillers." John groaned, closing his eyes for a moment when nausea rolled through him.

The detective hurtled through the door, demanding for one of John's doctors, and before he could even blink, Doctor Burke was administering something strong. It sent pleasant shivers through him, and he couldn't help but enjoy the warm relief of the drug.

"Are you better now?" Sherlock questioned, retaking his seat and settling now that he could see John relax into the hospital grade mattress. John smiled small and nodded, clenching his fingers so tight into a fist that his nails left prints in his palm. Grunting and shuffling in the bed now that he wasn't able to feel the pain in his side, John struggled into a sitting position. The moment the detective knew what he was doing, he rolled his eyes and got up to help John situate the pillows in the most comfortable position he could get without tearing open his stitches.

"I didn't think you'd be here." John mumbled, flexing the hand with the IV in it. He didn't want to see Sherlock's face curl with sarcastic displeasure.

"I've been here for hours, John," Came his friend's reply, just as quiet and careful. That confession threw him through a loop though, considering when he was awake hours ago, he was just as lonely as he was ten minutes before. Seeing the confusion on John's face, Sherlock clarified. "Your doctor's did not wish for you to be disturbed, and apparently forgot that my brother is the one paying them. The moment I heard you had woken, I knew that they could no longer hold me back."

A warm feeling spread through him, and this time it wasn't morphine. Knowing that Sherlock had been there, had probably skipped out early on his new case just to be there for when he woke up, was utterly comforting.

The two of them sat there for hours, exchanging hospital horror stories and laughing at each others misfortune. Sherlock told him about his new case, getting passionate about the mysterious residue waiting at Baker Street for him to process. John told him about his cancer in detail, answering every little question that Sherlock didn't already have an answer to. He claimed it would help him with a future case, maybe, but John suspected it was his way of asking his friend how he was doing.


	9. Depression

"John."

The man in question kept his eyes closed, his breathing slow and even, doing everything he could to block out the persistent voice.

"I know you're awake."

Again, taking deep breaths to keep himself from shouting, John turned his head away from the door and curled around himself. There was no reason for him to be bothered, and he sure as hell wasn't going to respond just because Sherlock bloody Holmes demanded him to. An irritated sigh from the doorway and a mumbling he couldn't quite make clear, it seemed like his friend had finally left him alone. Turning on his back again, he uncurled himself and winced at the pain so much movement caused. The pain was better than having to answer Sherlock's every damn question.

Two days after being holed up in his private room, John had began refusing visitors. Mrs. Hudson had only seen him once over the past week, and Greg not at all. Sherlock had stopped by every day but one, insisting that he needed to talk with John. He threatened to use Mycroft, but either never followed through with it, or Mycroft had denied Sherlock the opportunity to override John's request.

Either way, after four days of being ignored and told off, the detective was getting angry.

John sighed, rubbing at his eyes and blinking up at the white ceiling. He had counted every tile, noticed every knick, and watched every program on the telly, and his boredom was getting to him. There was the attempt at reading, but focusing like that had made his head spin, so he quickly gave up on that venture.

He took up card games after one of his doctor's brought him a deck. Doctor Burke didn't even say anything when she delivered the small parcel, just flashed him a small smile and retreated. John had said thank you, but she was out of the room before he realised what was going on.

It's not that he didn't want to see anyone, really. It's that he didn't want anyone to see him. He was more fragile now than ever before, even after a month of chemotherapy. Now, he wasn't just bald and frail and ghostly pale, he wasn't able to move more than just to sit up and occasionally go to the loo. This was worst than the cane ever was.

Sherlock's constant presence was reassuring that it didn't matter how weak and close to death he got, he still had friends, but it was also a grinding reminder that he shouldn't be in this bed. He was no use to anyone; there was no ability to make tea or go to crime scenes, and he couldn't even focus long enough to read reports anymore. The drugs made him sedate and pain free, but they also made him dizzy.

Sighing and closing his eyes again, John slid down the bed until his head was resting on the small stack of pillows. Humming quietly, he picked at his nails, frowning as he looked around his empty room.

"Now I know how Sherlock feels all the time," He muttered, biting at his nail and glancing towards the door, worried that someone would hear him talking to himself. "Bored and ready to shoot the wall." John chuckled softly, making his fingers into a gun and pretending to shoot at the wall.

The moment he saw a familiar face though, he dropped his hand and turned back to facing the ceiling. Sherlock stood at the door, hesitating and watching his friend through the little window. Eventually, he made his silent choice though, and slid into the room, letting out a small breath when John didn't yell at him to leave. The 'click' of the door caught the doctor's attention, and he slowly turned his head. John's eyes were sallow, questioning why Sherlock continued to try and talk to the stubborn sick man. He hadn't gotten more than a sentence out of him the whole week; it made no sense for him to keep coming back.

"Why are you here?" John asked after a few minutes of palpable silence. His friend hadn't moved an inch, hadn't said a word and hadn't seemed to even deduce too much in his head yet.

"You are my friend, John," He started, taking a few steps towards the hospital bed, but hesitating before he got in reaching distance. "I don't want you to be stuck alone. You'll go crazy if you're in this room for too long with no one to talk to."

John motioned for Sherlock to take the chair beside his bed. He knew Sherlock was right, he could already feel himself going off the ledge. The two of them caught up on the basics: John's condition and Mrs. Hudson's fussing over Sherlock's eating habits. There were a couple of cases in the time between his hospital visits, but nothing that he didn't solve in half an hour. He claimed to be eating and sleeping on a more regular basis so he could attend to John's needs better, knowing it would do the sick doctor no good if his flatmate fainted from sleep deprivation when he couldn't help him.

Curling up and watching Sherlock's hands move as the detective talked about his newest experiment (something smelly that John wouldn't approve of had he been home), John sighed and began to chew on his nail again. Things didn't stay comfortable for long, seeing as John began to withdraw back into himself. It started with him not telling stories anymore to not even replying to Sherlock's. It was such a slow moving recoil that it took Sherlock a minute to even realise that John had gone back to staring at the ceiling.

Sherlock took a moment to evaluate him before sliding the chair closer, frowning down at his friend. Squinting his eyes and obviously gathering up as much information as possible, John pointedly ignored his looks and sighed quietly.

"You're-" He started, cutting himself off to re-evaluate his approach. "Are you all right, John?"

The doctor didn't answer for a minute, and Sherlock almost believed that he didn't hear his question.

"No." John whispered, rubbing at his eyes with the hand not weighed down with the IV. They sat in the quiet again, Sherlock figuring a way to approach the subject while John prayed that his friend would ignore it. John was the unlucky one.

"You're upset," Sherlock started softly, his eyes wondering over his flatmate's face. "Sad. Not because you're injured, necessarily, but... Because of your condition? You don't like being seen like this, fragile and broken, do you?"

John shook his head, covering his face still and willing himself to stay like that until he gathered his composure. Surely it would do him no good to burst into tears and throw a fit. Taking three deep breaths and counting to ten, John shook himself a little and forced himself to look over at Sherlock. The detective was watching him with a curious expression, knowing the emotions but not completely understanding them. John didn't think he could explain, it was difficult enough for him to tell himself the answers, let alone tell another person. Especially when that other person was often oblivious to the most common of feelings.

"I'm not this," He mumbled, sighing and running his fingers through his short hair. "I'm a military man. I'm a doctor. I'm a detective's assistant," A raw chuckle broke through his throat. "I'm a shell."

He sounded resigned, like he had come to terms with being half the man he was before. His breathing stuttered, like he was laughing. Maybe he was crying, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"You're still a doctor, and you're still my partner," Sherlock reminded him, resisting the urge just barely to roll his eyes at John's negative demeanor. "Just because you're currently indisposed doesn't mean you're going to be thrown to the curb."

John was definitely crying, now.

"I can't help! I can't diagnose people; I can't cure colds or broken arms anymore. I can't jump on the backs of murderers when you don't want to get your coat dirty in the mud, and I can't even read bloody reports without wanting to puke!" John covered his face again, tugging his knees up to his chest with his spare hand, wincing a little at the tug of strain it put on his side. "I'm a shell." He repeated with more conviction, shaking his head and choking out another rough laugh.

Sherlock stuck his hands under his thighs to keep from grabbing John and shaking the nonsense out of him. It was difficult to watch his friend put himself down when he was so obviously an asset. The detective just wanted to tell him that much.

"John, shut up," He started, frowning and pausing, knowing he had started off wrong. "Look, look at me Watson. You're here, in the hospital, crying and unable to be of any assistance, and yet I have come to visit nearly every day. Why? You're just a flatmate, a friend, granted my only one. Is this what normally happens in friendships? Certainly none that I have ever had. The only person to ever visit me in the hospital before you came along was Mycroft, and that was because Mummy forced him to see me. But here I am, sitting by your bedside with the uncontrollable urge to hug you because it bothers me to see you crying like this. I have come to terms with the fact that you may never come along running through London without me again, but there are ways we can keep you involved and busy. You shouldn't feel useless, John, because you are anything but."

Sitting there, absorbing the rant Sherlock spewed, John just nodded along slowly. He had no idea what plans Sherlock had to keep him involved and feeling important, but it was likely something that would insult his intelligence and push his buttons. At least that would feel like home more than this hospital, and the mushy feelings it brought out in the two of them.

Reaching out, their hands connected briefly, tightly reassuring each other that things would turn out all right, in the end.

Sherlock stood, fixing his scarf before grabbing John's shoulder and squeezing it. The shared a brief smile, silently acknowledging that Sherlock still had work to do, even if John wasn't there to help. Hopefully the look he shot him was enough to say 'play nice because I wont be there to put a good word to your name'.

As soon as he was gone, the tears were back. Half were tears of relief. Half were still tears of denial.

John felt empty; like he said, he was just a shell of his old self. His chest was tight, and not with the urge to cough. His head was light, his eyes burning with the need to close them against the world's light. Choking and gasping for breath, John clutched at the bedding and sobbed, chin on his chest, knees to his stomach. He tried to hide himself in a ball, glad that his friend had closed the door behind him on his way out.

It felt like his insides were trying to claw their way out through every pore. His stomach growled with the need to be fed, but he knew that if he tried to eat it would all end up right back where it came from. John's entire body was prickled with goose pimples, shivers running under the fabric of his skin with every breath he took.

Taking great, heaving breaths, he closed his eyes and began counting again, trying to pull himself together and away from the corners of a panic attack.

Soon enough, he was getting himself back in check, his chest rattling with the gulps of air. John ran his hand through his hair and over his face, watching the way it shook more than it had when he had his normal tremor. Managing to calm himself down to the point that he was able to breath perfectly fine and sit up without wanting to pass out from the lack of oxygen to his brain, John covered his mouth to hold back the sobs that wanting to escape.

"I'm okay," He whispered to no one, shaking his head and clutching at the bandages on his side. "Depression can't take hold of me." He demanded, repeating the words Sherlock had told him not but ten minutes earlier.

He surprised himself with the conviction, and the self-diagnosis. The doctors had warned him that he might feel down and out, but the word 'depression' hadn't come up once. And he had dealt with it enough to know the familiar feeling raging through his veins. It wasn't his first time through the memorable ringer, and he knew that if he didn't shove his way threw, it would eat him alive. Last time, he had met Sherlock, and the feelings of despair and hopelessness had slowly but surely dissipated. He had Sherlock this time; there were undoubtedly no new friends of that caliber to be made to pull him from the clutches of depression.

A mantra of 'it will be all right, I've got all I need in my life', started up in the back of his mind, and he rocked himself in the bed, nodding and repeating the words under his breath until be believed them.

The pressure was still there, in his chest, hot and tight and heavy, but it wasn't as bad. His head was clear enough for his eyes not to burn when they reopened to the room, and his stomach didn't feel so profoundly nauseous.

Cancer was a sickness that he had been able to remove. Cancer was treatable and (mostly) fixable and it wasn't going to be the end of him just yet. And neither would this bloody misery. If he could handle one sickness, he was more than strong enough to handle another. He wasn't alone to do it, either, which was greatly reassuring. No matter how alone he felt, there was always going to be people at his side, holding his hand through the hardships and helping his grow through each trial and error.

"I've got Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson, and Greg," He told himself, a flicker of a smile crossing his face at the thought of his friends. "There's Sarah and Mike and the boys from the Yard. I will always have the cases and the shopping and my blog. I may not have much, but I have enough to last me ten lifetimes."


	10. Recovery

"Get away from me," John hissed, swiping at the hand that grabbed at his arm. "I'm not a bloody cripple."

Which, of course, was a bit of a lie. He was struggling to get off the hospital bed, putting too much of his weight on his right side. Between the stabbing pains in his chest cavity, the ache of his barely-used shoulder, and the phantom pains of his leg returning, John was hardly able to make it to the loo to change himself into street clothes.

Sherlock was there, standing in the doorway, watching the nurse coddle John. The detective had stayed away from the interaction, knowing full well that his friend would lash out even more at him if he were to try and assist him in moving.

"Sherlock, did you bring my gun?" He asked, growling the words while glaring at the nurse. "Because if she tries to put me in a wheelchair one more time, I'm going to need it."

"I'm sure Detective Inspector Lestrade will be pleased to hear of your willingness to use your military issued firearm on a helpful civilian." Sherlock drawled, holding his hands behind his back and poorly concealing the smirk that fought to take over his features. It was no secret that he was pleased every time John got angry like that. John flashed a weak grin, knowing he was only adding in all the little details like 'DI' and 'military issued' to frighten the woman. It worked, apparently, seeing how quickly she fled from the room.

Huffing out a quiet laugh, John grabbed his cane and slowly limped towards the door, turning to glance around only to make sure he hadn't left anything behind. With a sigh, the doctor flashed a quick smile up at his friend before leaving the silent white room. John winced, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in his direction, but stayed his ground, knowing John would lash out again if he offered his hand.

"Tell me about the new case." John insisted, catching his breath when they stepped into the lift.

"Ah, yes, well, it's quite simple really." Sherlock smirked a little, using his hands to explain the height difference between the CCTV footage and the criminal Lestrade had suspected. Not to mention how the proper suspect was a woman, with a spectacular skill for convincing men to empty their cash registers into her backpack. He went on to insult the team he had been forced to work with at the Yard, grumbling about being stuck with Donovan without the peace of John or Lestrade around.

John didn't say much, just nodded and made encouraging noises of 'brilliant' through his clenched teeth. Two weeks in the hospital hadn't done too much in the healing department, and he was out of breath by the time they made it out front to catch a taxi. He should have stayed longer, his doctors told him that, hell, even his own instincts told him that, but he was going stir crazy in that white room with the insistent beeping of his monitors and the constant interruptions from the bloody nurses. There was a hesitance it leaving, though, because he knew he would be snapping at all the little idiosyncrasies Sherlock provided him with. Even knowing he wouldn't be able to clean up after his messes and he'd absolutely struggle climbing up the stairs to get to his room every night, it would be a million times better than shuffling around a busy hospital in a backless gown.

Muttering a 'thanks' to his friend as Sherlock helped him into a taxi, John closed his eyes and leaned back into the seat, waving his hand in the hopes that the detective would continue with the details of his most recent cases. John hadn't been able to help on a single one of them, confined to his hospital bed and doped up on drugs that made him exhausted and dizzy. The pain wouldn't be so bad if he could work.

"The DI will be coming over this evening," Sherlock told him, sneering a little as he typed away on his phone. "Along with a few of your 'buddies' from the Yard. Apparently they felt it fit that you need a welcome home party."

John chuckled, hearing the distaste mold around each word. Nodding and elbowing his friend lightly, he flashed a small smile, relaxing into the cab as it wove through the streets of London.

"It'll be fun," He insisted, giving Sherlock a pointed look that he needed it to be fun. "I'll make sure no one messes with your experiments." John offered, knowing the detective would turn vicious on any of the guests if they dared to mess with any of the mould-growing subjects that were probably sitting on the windowsill still.

"Well," Sherlock cleared his throat, avoiding John's eyes in favor of watching the streets pass by out the window. "That will be easy. I currently have no experiments out."

That certainly threw John through a loop. He always had things lying about, absorbing acid or disintegrating in the sunlight or something.

Before he could ask, the taxi was stopping on Baker Street and obviously waiting impatiently for his fare. With a grunt, Sherlock helped John out of the cab before paying the driver and scolding him for cheating on his wife with a younger woman. The two of them snickered, watching the fuming man speed off. It wasn't so bad, walking into 221B. The rough part was those damn bloody stairs. He counted the seconds it took him to count each one. It took him longer and longer after each step, straining his body to push him up the seventeen steps without help from Sherlock. If he were going to get better, he'd have to do it on his own. There was no relying on others, at this point.

Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs the second she realised John had returned to the flat. Her tea tray was precariously perched on top of a messy pile of newspapers, but it didn't fall over as she bustled about to make John as comfortable as he could possibly be.

"Thanks." John smiled softly, squeezing her hand and sipping at the perfectly made cuppa. God, how he had missed well made tea.

It was more than just pleasant to hear her bustle around, complaining about the messes Sherlock had made, fussing over John and muttering about not being their housekeeper. Sherlock grumbled and pouted, glaring at John every time he agreed with their landlady about the mess.

Before long, Lestrade was bounding up the stairs, Chinese food and a few fellow officers in tow. Dimmock and Samuels greeted him with a slap to the shoulder, telling how good he looked for looking like shit. John laughed and grinned with the rest of them, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock when he slumped into his chair and watched the guys mill around, stealing each others take out containers and tossing insults at each other. He had expected the detective to retreat to his bedroom, but it seemed as if he was making an honest attempt to connect with other human beings.

Time passed in a flash, and pain eased away with each moment. He didn't need painkillers; he could work again and get back to his usual routine. Sure, he'd never get back to his old self, and there was a very slim chance that he would be able to chase criminals as well as he used to be, but that didn't mean he wouldn't get back on his feet, eventually. The depression would linger on the edges of his vision, certainly, but it was controllable. His doctor told him that the surgery had gotten rid of almost all the cancer, if not all of it. John decided that it didn't matter, if it gave him an extra month or an extra year, that's all he could ask for.

John yawned, leaning against the doorframe and grinning as Lestrade shoved Dimmock out the front door. They said their goodbyes, but the young officer had a little too much to drink, and was insistent that it was his flat, not Watson's.

He made his way up the second flight of stairs, heading to his room to crash. Getting used to a normal schedule and lots of movement was going to be exhausting. Halfway up the stairs, John bent in half with the taste of bile rising in his throat. He had been walking too fast, putting too much strain on his body so soon. Before he could blink or vomit, though, Sherlock was at his side, grabbing him gently around his back and helping him up to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Rushing to the connected bathroom, he lurched over the toilet and winced when he tasted the Chinese from earlier. Sherlock hovered, a glass of water waiting in his hand, frowning down at his flatmate.

"T-thanks," John mumbled quietly, rinsing out his mouth with the water before shakily getting to his feet. "Too much strain, I guess."

Sherlock made a sound like he already knew that, but didn't comment on how stupid John was for doing that.

John didn't sleep well, a mix of acid on his tongue and heat burning his chest. He knew how to sleep without hurting his side, but that knowledge apparently didn't make any difference to him the moment he fell asleep, considering he woke up ten minutes later on his side, curled up and groaning in pain. Swelling with more emotions than he could count, he let out a choked cough hiding his emotional pain in his physical. He felt bipolar, flipping so easily between laughing and having a right good time with his friends, to having trouble keeping himself from puking and crying all at once.

"God," He strangled a sigh, rubbing his hands over his face and wincing with the movement. "Recovering is going to be the death of me."

More than likely, though, Sherlock would be the death of him. Especially seeing as how he so easily convinced John to attend a crime scene with him, just the day after he had returned from the hospital. It wasn't all bad; he enjoyed getting back to work and being readily involved with cases, rather than reading reports and looking at photos. Lestrade welcomed him heartily while Donovan seemed to praise the ground he walked on. Sherlock really was better off with him tagging along, because according to the stories, he had been hell to Sally and Anderson and the other officers while the doctor was in the hospital.

"I'm not running." John growled, stabbing his cane into the ground and glaring at his flatmate, who was eager to go on foot to the flat where the suspect was likely to be. Before Sherlock could insult him and force him into something that would only end up being worse for him, Sally had grabbed John's arm and tugged him to the waiting police car. Sherlock, of course, refused to get in it, instead opting for the charge by using his mental map and twenty foot long legs to outrace the police.

Donovan managed to go the whole ride without a snide comment in the consulting detective's way, even going as far as to commend John for standing up for himself. Time made her heart grow fonder, apparently.

Or Sherlock was just a terror without him, and she was glad to have him back to shut him up.

(That was more likely).

Sherlock ended up being right about the murderer hiding away in his sister's flat, but there was no need to run there, because the man had gotten high after stabbing the drug dealer that he was barely moving even when a few cops burst into the flat, guns drawn.

John stayed at the edges of the room, watching the officer with Donovan handcuff the guy and drag him (literally) to his feet. Sherlock slid his way across the living space, sidling up next to his friends. They exchanged silent glances, curious and cautious eyes boring into hard ones. The man was high on cocaine, which was obvious from the lines on the table and the nosebleed that Sally asked him to check before they tossed him into the police car and headed to the hospital.

The detective left without even a backwards glance at the stash leftover on the table.

John huffed to catch up, groaning a little and leaning heavily on his cane while Sherlock waved for a cab. At least he had gotten the sense not to injure his friend anymore.

By the time they got back to 221B and settled into their respective chairs with hot tea and Mrs. Hudson's homemade scones, they settled into routine and chatted idly about the case. John was ever impressed with his friend's abilities, complimenting him on the way he had figured out where the man would go, all based off the fact that the knife had a purple stripe on the black handle. Sherlock didn't even go on a fifteen-minute rant about how useless the Scotland Yard detective's were.

It was extraordinarily relaxing knowing that it was so easy to slide back into their normal lives. The more he walked, the easier it was becoming. He'd still be out of breath and clutching the cane with white knuckles after climbing the stairs, but there were no more spells of pain-induced vomiting, which they were both grateful for.

Kicking his feet out and leaning back against the Union flag pillow, John smirked as Sherlock flicked the telly onto mindless talk show crap. Getting him into bad shows was probably one of the worst and one of the best things he had ever done. The detective would curl up and yell at the telly, complaining about how ridiculous the shows were before muttering about how ridiculous he was for not being able to turn it off.

John's coughing caught his attention, but that didn't last for long. The doctor was no longer ending his fits with sobs, grasping at the chair as if it held the oxygen he desperately needed, or ended up with blood on the cuffs of his jumpers.

Feeling better than he had in weeks, John got up to make himself a snack, promising his flatmate more tea. He was able to flit around the small kitchen without his cane, using the counter tops to hold himself steady while he made toast, grumbling about the very tiny amount of jam left in his jar.

Surgery wasn't going to hold him back. Coughing and losing his breath and hardly being able to take the stairs? That was nothing. Chemotherapy was no longer breathing down his neck and weakening him and turning him gray. John had refused to let lung cancer beat him down.


	11. Epilogue

Two years, three months later.

~

"Dammit Sherlock!" John panted, clutching his side and glaring at his flatmate. "You can't try to outrun me like that!"

Despite the yelling, there was a broad grin on his face, even between coughs and grumbles of swear words.

"I can, and I did, obviously." Came Sherlock's answer, smirk clear as day in his tone. John just shook his head and flashed his middle finger in the vague direction of the detective. Hearing the cacophony of disgruntled voices from their right, the two looked up to see the small crowd of Scotland Yard's police force watching the two. A few had gleeful expressions, smirking and already asking for their money, while the majority of them complained about John not using his cane to his advantage and tripping up Sherlock. He had claimed his distaste for cheating, but still hit the old cane against Sherlock's legs after he got his breath back.

"Not fair, of course he can win against a cripple." John grunted, casting a teasing eyebrow in Lestrade's direction. The doctor was the only one who ever called himself any form of handicapped- the rest were too scared to pass any sort of judgment on him after the way Sherlock threatened the last DI. Greg was one of the few who knew it wasn't a self-deprecating comment, which made it easier to join in the laughter.

The losers handed over their bets, still commenting that they had been tricked into believing that John could beat Sherlock in a race. The new officers were the only ones to fall for it.

"Where's my cut?" John asked, elbowing the detective inspector gently.

"At the bottom of a pint," Lestrade grinned, waving the handful of bills in direction of the nearest pub. "Sherlock, you coming?" The consulting detective simply nodded, straightening his jacket and reapplying his scarf.

John was limping and out of breath before they even began the short walk to O'Malley's, but no worse than usual. The pain in his side was drowned in the heavy weight of his chest. He was used to it, really, after so long, but it never felt good. There was no telling why he still did the ridiculous little races, but hey, he got a free beer or two.

"Are you alright, John?" His flatmate questioned, a hand on John's shoulder and the look of concern only in the pinch above his brow. John nodded, flashing a small smile and rubbing unintentionally at his side.

"Stitches are old enough, they didn't rip this time." The doctor nodded.

John had been through another three surgeries since the original; the cancer insisted on returning shortly after each one.

"Probably my last race, though." He added solemnly, turning his head away every time he coughed. No one commented on the persistent coughs anymore, knowing there was nothing they could do to help them stop.

The three of them got a booth in the back, away from prying eyes or loud crowds. They stayed silent, waiting for their drinks to arrive, letting John catch his long-lost breath, letting Sherlock and Lestrade bask in the strong friendship the group had formed. It wasn't long before their pints hit the table, and the silent fog had lifted.

"To scamming fresh meat." Lestrade lifted his beer.

"To John not beating me with his cane." Sherlock quirked a smirk, lifting his own ale.

"To final runs." John joined in, tapping his mug against the other two before taking a gulp of the cold liquor.

The routine never wavered; John had six 'final runs' since he first brought it up. Sherlock praised him every time, for doing it even through the pain. Greg always strayed from the subject (at least while sober).

This was the final, though. Long since the race had ran, and yet John was still wheezy and digging his fingers into his thigh to keep from lingering his mind on the pain swelling in his chest. The looks in the other twos eyes said they knew it, too.

John usually had no more than two beers, not wanting to fall flat on his face when he limped up the stairs of Baker Street, but it was a futile mission at this point, seeing as he was likely to fall no matter how much he drank. Ah, the curses of dying. Stability wasn't high on his body's list of functions, anymore.

Four beers later, the men were definitely a little more than tipsy. Even Sherlock had continued to drink with them, quickly falling out of his usual composed grace. Their talks hesitated and flirted around the edges of the elephant in the room, no one wanting to bring it up first, but all knowing it needed to be done.

Goodbyes.

When Sherlock excused himself to the loo, flush on his cheeks making it clear that the alcohol had an effect on him, John cleared his throat and looked up at Lestrade. Fingering the handle on his pint, he was at a loss as to where to start. Greg, seeing this clear as day, sighed and clinked his pint against John's lightly.

"It's been a good run, yeah?" He asked softly, eyeing the doctor carefully.

"Yeah," John's lips turned up at the corners, a small chuckle breaking through the din. "It really has, Greg. And you're the one to thank."

"Naw, I didn't do much." Lestrade denied, shaking his head, barely managing to keep a frown off his features.

"Lestrade, if it weren't for you, Sherlock would be either still on drugs, or dead. He told me the story of how you first met. You gave him a job, and that job gave his life purpose. If it weren't for that job, we'd probably never be flatmates. Out of everyone, you made one of the biggest impacts. Hell, you technically gave me a job and you had no idea who I was," John chuckled again, sighing and nursing his beer slowly. "I owe you a lot, mate, and I don't have enough time to tell you thanks."

"I have to thank you, too. You made Sherlock bearable. Even when you were away, he'd still be a lot less insulting that before you came along." Finishing off his own beer, Lestrade clapped a hand on John's shoulder and held it, smiling warming at his friend.

"It's been good knowing you, Greg."

They didn't say much after that, even when Sherlock rejoined their table.

Silence wrapped around their space, leaving them in the comfort of each other.

Before a fifth beer was started, the small group parted. Knocking his cane against Lestrade's leg, John flashed a smile, a real smile that wrinkled the corners of his old eyes. Hugging the DI tight to his chest, they held on longer than normal. It was needed. Lasts needed to carry all the things left unsaid. Lestrade left on foot while Sherlock hailed a cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock and John didn't speak the whole ride, simply exchanging glances and touching each other. A hand on the knee, a rub on the shoulder, a stroke on the neck, a hand through curly hair. The consulting detective paid the driver, hardly making comment about the man's manners before helping John out of the cab. He watched the man limp to 221B, huffing as he struggled with the handle. Sherlock left him to it, knowing John wouldn't appreciate help with the little things, even at this point.

John didn't go straight up the stairs; instead he shuffled his way to Mrs. Hudson's door, lightly knocking. Sherlock didn't stay to listen in.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson, sorry it's late." The doctor greeted with a sad smile, slowly stepping into her small flat when he welcomed him.

"Tea?" She asked, already set on making it before he could answer. He sat at her small eating table, setting aside his cane and waiting for her to join him. "It's time?" Her voice was small, afraid and worrying. John just nodded gently.

"Yeah," He sighed, settling into the mug she handed over and letting the pleasant silence linger over them for a moment. "I love you, Martha."

"Oh, John, you know I love you, too." Mrs. Hudson whispered, her shaky hand reaching out to fold around his.

"I've really enjoyed living here. It's so wonderfully... Home. I never thought I'd consider this place home," John chuckled softly, squeezing her hand. "I never thought I'd consider you my mum, but you are. And I'm going to miss you so much."

"And I'll miss you, love." They both ignored the wetness in her eyes and the cracks in his voice. Sitting at her small table, sharing goodbyes, John was startled to realise just how hard it was going to be for him. Everyone else would be left to grieve, to mourn his loss and eventually move on. All that was left for him was the sadness. There was no moving on from this, only the silence of death. It wouldn't be peaceful knowing he'd never see these people again.

"Take care of him for me, yeah? He neglects his eating and sleep enough as it is, we don't need him wallowing in those pesky little emotions he refuses to admit he has," John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a smile and a small laugh, both of their eyes swiveling to the roof, where they knew Sherlock would be. Martha nodded, keeping his hand tight in hers as they sat and finished their tea, moving on from that topic to others, tiptoeing around the heavy subjects and sticking to the lighter ones.

Wordlessly, John stood and wrapped his arms around his landlady, holding her close to his chest and burying his head into the crook of her neck. Sighing and breathing in her warm, sugary smell, he didn't want to let her go. Her fists were balled into the back of his jacket, her frail arms holding his slender body close, both of them murmuring comforting words to each other, neither wanting to end the peace.

"Goodbye, Martha." Grabbing his cane and planting a gentle kiss to her temple, John turned and left the small flat, keeping himself from looking back by sheer force of will. To see the tears he knew were there would just be too hard.

He was already winded and coughing, halfway up the stairs, but didn't stop until he was at the door. Sherlock was on the couch, lying back with his eyes closed. John would have thought him asleep if it wasn't for the small wave of fingers beckoning him closer. Shuffling forward, John dropped his coat over the armrest before setting aside his old cane and sitting on the edge of the cushion, near Sherlock's feet. Holding out his hand, the detective kept his eyes closed until he had felt John's fingers weave through his.

"How did she handle it?" He questioned softly, daring to glance up at his flatmate's face. John looked far too old, far too tired and weak. There was no happy turn to his mouth, no sparkle left twinkling in his eyes. All he had was that persistent cough that rattled what was left of his lungs.

"Remarkably well, considering she used to burst into tears just at the sight of me." John's chuckle turned into a weak cough, spots of red lingering on the sleeve of his oatmeal jumper. Sherlock sat up, sliding to one end of the couch to make room for John to lie.

"You've worked yourself too hard," Sherlock muttered disapprovingly, running his long fingers through the short hair that covered John's skull. Reaching into his pocket, the detective handed over two small pills. "It'll be in your sleep, so you might as well sleep sound." He answered the silent question calmly sighing only a little.

"Will it be fast?" John asked, taking the pills into his palm, watching them roll around. Sherlock simply nodded and continued his slow moving fingers. The doctor's body shuddered, a silent sob wracking his fragile being. "Be nice to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock. And be nice to Lestrade and them, but not too nice or they'll think you've gone crazy." Laughter mixed with the quiet crying, John's body curling up against Sherlock's.

"I'll do my best to ever so slightly reign in my distaste." Sherlock answered, the remains of a smile traced across his lips as he pressed them to John's temple carefully.

"Remember to eat, and sleep, sometimes," John's voice was suppressed behind a cough, and he slowly took the pills, dry. "Don't get lost in experiments, come up for breath every once in a while, yeah? Don't let Anderson or anyone get on your nerves too deep. And for the love of God, don't get yourself killed just because there's no one to nag you about safety."

They cracked matching smiles at that, each sighing in turn. John shifted, his head on Sherlock's thigh, looking up at him with sad, weary eyes. The detective leaned down, carefully pressing their lips together.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock whispered, his thumb tracing the line of John's cheek gently, not needing to elaborate on the gratitude.

"I'll miss you most of all," John nodded, covering Sherlock's hand with his eyes, his eyes already drooping with exhaustion. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John. Sleep well."

~

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to everyone who read and reviews (and will do either in the future)!


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